


Enchanted Ink

by Castielslostwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anxious Castiel (Supernatural), Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Eventual Smut, Fandom Trumps Hate, Fandom Trumps Hate 2020, First Meetings, Getting Together, Happy Winchesters (Supernatural), Healing, M/M, Magical Realism, Magical Tattoos, No Angst, Self-Acceptance, Sensitive Dean Winchester, Sweet Dean Winchester, Tattoo Artist Castiel (Supernatural), Tattoo Artist Dean Winchester, Tattoo Artist Sam Winchester, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Wings, Writer Dean Winchester, the bunker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-23 10:40:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23043622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielslostwings/pseuds/Castielslostwings
Summary: In a world where an artist's magic brings tattoos to life, ink-gone-wrong can spell lasting heartache for those unlucky enough to experience it. Jaded and cynical on both life and love, Castiel's about to find out that even the most deeply-etched scars can be transformed into something beautiful when the right person is holding the pen.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, past Castiel/Balthazar - Relationship
Comments: 908
Kudos: 1189
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020, Mixtape Book Club Podcast - Discussed Fics, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zaffre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaffre/gifts).



> This is my gift to my high bidder for Fandom Trumps Hate 2020; Zaffre, and oh my god, I could not have dreamed of a more wonderful experience. I loved Zaffre's requests so much that I honestly couldn't stop writing, clearly, it's been less than a week since bidding closed and I have 20k+. This fic is so fun and the magical world is really fascinating (if I do say so myself?!). In no particular order, Zaffre was hoping for something from the following ideas: hurt/comfort, a tattoo AU, a writer AU, Cas's wings, first meetings, and/or Dean as a secret writer where Cas loves his work but doesn't know it's him. I didn't manage to get the bodyswap request into this one, but the rest are all there. 😂
> 
> I think my favorite thing about this fic, besides the magical world, is the repurposing of the Bunker, probably because it hits all my buttons for what I wish the guys would have post-canon. Anyway, Zaffre, I hope you enjoy your gift, and I hope everyone else does too. Serial posting unpredictably until complete but y'all know me... it won't be long.

The twelfth annual “Enchanted Ink” Tattoo Convention has been in full swing for hours, but Castiel’s yet to venture inside. It’s not as if he doesn’t know what he’ll find—a fairly standard convention space divided by equally standard black curtains on predictable portable frames, booths and stations showcasing various tattoo artists and their work; the best of the best, by both fact _and_ opinion. Plus, several showcase stands, elevated platforms where human works of art strip down to their underwear in order to display full-body and full-color tattoos with some of the most intricate and beautiful imagery that probably exists in the inked world. 

It’s not Castiel’s first tattoo convention and it won’t be his last, though whether he’ll ever be behind a booth showcasing his work again, that remains to be seen. Grimacing as he thinks about the fact that Balthazar is working in there somewhere, Castiel’s carefully gathered nerve to finally wander inside once again trickles away like water through a sieve. He sighs and rubs the sleeve of his too-dressy button-down across the backs of his eyelids.

He’s too dressed up for this and he looks out of place. Too _covered,_ if nothing else—the whole point of a tattoo convention is to show off one’s tattoos and here Castiel is, buttoned up solidly from head to toe. The only visible sign that he’s _not_ the stuffy ink-virgin he appears to be curls lowly up the right side of his bare neck, a tendril of light blue highlighted masterfully with bright white as if his internal power source is leaking from a cut in his skin. Castiel loves that particular tattoo, designed the pattern (and the magical component) himself, and when he tilts his head back intentionally, the ink sparks to life. It swirls free in a misty, white-light haze that twists and curves through the air gently before settling back against his skin. 

As a tattoo artist himself, Castiel knows he should be setting a better example for others, especially _here._ He _should_ be in a t-shirt or less, laying it all out there, unwilling to feel or act ashamed of what Balthazar did to him, what he _took_ from him by doing what he did. If anything, Castiel’s willingness to be out and loud about his ruined ink could help others who may have experienced the same thing and now feel shame and fear about coming forward to have their tattoos fixed. It’s certainly not the easiest thing to do when ink—especially magical ink—is so innately personal—Castiel knows.

Still, it’s not that simple, not where emotions come into play about it. Especially when those emotions are tied up in both a personal relationship and Castiel’s entire livelihood, all flushed down the drain together in one fell swoop. _Misery._ Sure, Castiel’s made some mistakes, and he knew that he’d broken Balthazar’s heart when he chose to be honest about his (lack of romantic) feelings for the man, but he truly thought they’d end up _friends_ and stronger for it. Instead, Castiel found himself friendless, jobless, and with a humiliating ink pattern on his back that he has to look at, has to think about and suffer with, every single day.

As someone who inks people’s skin for a living, it’s not the most ringing endorsement of either his talent or his judgment. So, no, Castiel won’t be strutting around with his own personal canvas on display, not this year, anyway and perhaps not ever again.

The damaged ink _is,_ however, the reason he’s here at all, subjecting himself to the possibility of running into his smarmy ex-boyfriend and ex-business partner in the first place. This particular convention hosts the best of the best, the limited number of artists Castiel would even _consider_ trusting to get near him with a tattoo gun. That is the hardest part of a touch-up, especially one of this magnitude—finding someone he can _trust_ with it. Not just with the design and the artistry or even the skillful infusion of magic itself, but with the _history_ , the repair process of something that’s essentially a part of Castiel’s psyche, a part of who he _is,_ that someone he trusted turned into a weapon simply to cause him pain. 

Shaking his head, Castiel swings his legs, letting them smack against the stone wall he’s sitting on while he sighs and closes the book he brought with him to read. It’s a well-worn (read: falling apart) copy of his favorite fantasy novel, but Castiel’s prone to carrying it like a security blanket, reading passages to calm his nerves and help him escape whenever he’s feeling anxious. _Anxious_ was a given emotion in coming here, so it’s no surprise that the book has seen its fair share of stress on its bindings today.

 _Thank you, Michael Shield,_ Castiel thinks silently, running fingers over the author’s name at the bottom of the book’s cover. He wishes that _Michael Shield,_ whoever he is, would show interest in attending conventions like these (but for authors, of course), because Castiel would gladly hop a plane, fly cross-country, and pay any amount of money requested just for the chance to meet him and shake his hand, to say thank you for the works that have provided Castiel so much comfort and the chance to escape his often-shitty life. 

He blinks and looks around, realizing abruptly that it’s already well into the afternoon. Castiel’s been parked here, at the top of the stone steps leading up to the convention center nearly since the event opened its doors this morning. It’s the perfect place to watch as various customers and artists wander in and out, and to keep an eye out for Balthazar. There’s no sign of him, though, and Castiel has to admit, he’s getting bored just sitting here quietly as the day wears on. Part of him regrets not asking Gabriel along today, though Gabriel would just tell him to _suck it up, buttercup,_ and to stop being dramatic, and Castiel’s not entirely ready for that sort of “help” from his older brother. He’ll stop leaning into his negative feelings about what happened to him when he’s good and ready.

Still, if he sits here much longer, the artists inside are going to begin to wrap up, and Castiel will miss out on his opportunity to see them at work at all, never mind narrow down who he might be willing to consider letting help him out. With not a small amount of residual trepidation, Castiel spins around to face the building and hops off of the wall, dusting his pants off once he hits the ground. At the door, he shows a ticket-taker the pass that showed up in his mailbox a week ago, the elite one that marks him as an artist and a part of Balthazar’s team. 

While that’s no longer the case, Castiel’s not about to pass up free admission and access to VIP booths and lines, so he flashes the badge without hesitation and then stuffs it into his pocket where it can’t be seen or questioned by anyone who might happen to know that Balthazar Roche and Castiel Novak definitely do not work (or play) together anymore. 

The main floor of the convention is pretty much exactly as Castiel expected it to be. Tons of individual booths occupy the majority of floor space, each one with sample artwork hung and displayed on racks and wires, lots of merch for sale, and usually a table or chair set up for the booth owners to demonstrate their skills live and in person. Conventions are a toss-up when it comes to actually _getting_ artwork done—some artists come with their own clients already lined up, more interested in putting on a show than anything else, and some come willing to ink up whoever might happen along that day. 

The truth is, Castiel knows exactly where he’s going and to whose booth, but he plays it cool all the same, dragging his feet and pretending that he’s not actually making a beeline for Dean Winchester and _Soul Survivor_ ’s giant set-up towards the very back of the expo center hall. Despite all of his hesitation and bluster, Castiel already knows that if someone here is going to sell him on their ability to handle the re-work Castiel has in mind for his piece, it’s Dean. Not that he and Dean have ever actually met, not officially, but Castiel’s been following his work for years, admiring his skills steadfastly from afar. 

The thing about Dean’s work that sets it apart from other magical tattoo artists is that it’s _pure_. Each piece he creates has an obvious backstory, the mystical elements intertwined with the ink in a thoughtful, intentional process that Castiel recognizes from his own work. Dean doesn’t just _tattoo,_ he creates. One glance at his work shows that he takes pride in each work of art he sends out into the world, a work ethic Castiel relates to very strongly, and something that’s non-negotiable when it comes to fixing his own piece. 

As he approaches the booth for the studio Dean owns with his brother, Castiel spots Sam Winchester first. Plenty of magazines are always clamoring for the brothers to interview and shoot with them, as popular as Dean is fast becoming and as model-gorgeous as both of them are naturally. Thanks to that, it’s likely that almost everyone in this room could pick both Winchesters easily out of a lineup, and Castiel is no exception. 

Sam’s hair falls into his face and he brushes it back reflexively, unbothered as he continues to focus on his work. He’s tattooing on the right side of the booth when Castiel joins the crowd of people watching, his eyes scanning over the photo-realistic back piece Sam is inking onto a muscular man sitting backward in the tattoo chair. The design mostly contains various skulls and thorny branches, nothing overtly elaborate or complicated, which is surprising. At first glance, the tattoo might even seem sort of generic, especially for a Winchester piece, but Castiel’s eyes clock the spark of magic Sam’s infusing from his gun into each and every line, and his own experience tells him that underestimating this tattoo would be a mistake. 

He’s right. Sam finishes up what he’s doing less than five minutes after Castiel’s arrival, sitting back and wiping his brow as he nods at the customer to stand up. One of Sam’s assistants drags a full-length mirror over, and Sam has the muscular man standing in front of another wide hanging mirror that’s already propped against the back wall. _This should be good,_ Castiel thinks, recognizing the setup for the standard way to allow a customer to witness the full glory of a finished magical piece on a tough-to-see part of the body. 

“So,” Sam says, clapping his hand together and addressing the gathered crowd—much bigger than when Castiel first strode up, but that’s expected for a reveal—and Castiel tries not to be too annoyed when he’s jostled to the side by a handful of newcomers. “For those of you who weren’t around when I spoke earlier, this was a coverup,” Sam explains, smiling widely, and the proud, boyish look on his face has Castiel understanding immediately why people gravitate towards the younger Winchester. Handsome and charismatic, his personality is in stark contrast to his usual work, which from what Castiel has seen tends towards the dark and macabre. It’s part of why Castiel never considered Sam over Dean, though their skills are comparable.

Depending on what happens next, Castiel wonders if he should reconsider. 

“We all know that tattoos are personal, especially magical ones,” Sam continues and the crowd murmurs their agreement. “So you’ll forgive me for not delving into the backstory too deeply on this one, but suffice it to say, the goal was to replace some bad memories with good ones. To have love and hope grow out of pain and death, and I hope—” Sam cuts himself off nervously here and flushes a little, which Castiel finds quite endearing, since Sam is the kind of skilled (not to mention popular in the tattoo world) that would have anyone who knows their salt laughing at the idea that he’d showcase subpar work at an event like this. Apparently, the guy is just that humble.

“Anyway,” Sam mumbles, clapping the newly-tattooed man on the shoulder. “Hope you like it, Benny. Go ahead and do your thing.” 

Standing on his toes to see over the crowd that’s now pushed unceremoniously in front of him, Castiel watches with rapt interest as Benny looks towards his left shoulder and closes his eyes. After a few seconds of silence, the tattoo on his back begins changing. This is the most fascinating part for Castiel, always and with no exception. Seeing how magical touches influence art and how they translate on the human body—it’s _always_ different, always unique, and the pinnacle of why it’s so important to have an artist who is in sync with their customer’s vision, their needs, and who they _are_. Get it wrong, and the final result could be anything from “just not that impressive” to outright disastrous.

There’s nothing of the sort like that here. There’s also nothing extravagant and showy, like fireworks that shoot into the air from Benny’s skin or a dragon that leaps off the canvas and breathes fire. No, Benny’s tattoo is much more subtle and beautiful than a series of cheap tricks. The crowd digs it, too. As they all watch, the thorny brambles wound around the various skulls and bones start to snake and creep further onto Benny’s skin. They wind around his chest and his arms, buds appearing and blooming up and down the length of the vines as they stretch. When it’s all over, the skulls have disappeared completely beneath a colorful canvas of all different shades of roses, peppering nearly every bit of exposed skin Benny has on display from the waist up. 

The crowd erupts into clapping and cheers and Castiel watches as Benny accepts a tissue from Sam’s assistant, blots his eyes before hugging Sam gruff but tight. As the onlookers disperse, Castiel sticks around, half-listening as Sam goes over with Benny how he can keep the tattoo in its current form or alter it back, or any shade in between. He watches as Benny tries it a few times and gets the hang of it, opting ultimately to put his t-shirt back on with the roses in full bloom, many of them visibly poking out from beneath his sleeve. 

“Thanks, brother,” he hears Benny say. “I’ll see yous both this weekend for poker at my place, yea? Don’t wanna disturb the princess while he’s working, he’s liable to take my head off.” Castiel follows Benny’s vague arm gesture to the left side of the Winchester’s stall setup. His eyes alight quickly on where Dean—the man he came for—is hunched over the stomach of a petite redhead, apparently completely oblivious to the show being put on less than ten feet away. That’s consistent with what Castiel knows and would expect of him, and it feels encouraging. 

Quietly, Castiel leaves Sam’s area behind to get closer to Dean, essentially creeping over his shoulder to watch him work. While he’d love to eyeball the tattoos Dean has on his own skin, the man’s about as covered up as Castiel is today (flannel instead of starch), and that’s a disappointment in and of itself. Still, there’s plenty else to see. When he gets close enough, he realizes that Dean and his client are having a lowkey conversation and wonders if he should back off, since it sounds sort of loaded. The redhead catches his eye, though, and winks, so Castiel opts to stay, offering her a small, appreciative smile in return. 

“I know I’ve said this like a hundred times, but this really means a lot to me, Dean,” she says, back to talking as if Castiel isn’t even there, and Castiel supposes that’s pretty normal when you’re basically the display behind glass for a bunch of window shoppers. Dean just grunts, wiping a gauze pad across his work before going back to it, and okay, that’s _less_ the suave _artiste_ Castiel expected, but to each their own. “Seriously, Dean,” the redhead repeats, smacking the hand belonging to Dean that’s resting on the other side of her belly lightly. “I thought I was a real renegade when I got that thing, still don’t know what I was thinking. I’m just glad I won’t be stuck with “Bad Charlie” for life.” 

Dean pauses at that, sits up and dabs at his work again, and Castiel can see now that it’s just a simple pair of shoes. Red and sparkly like sequins, which he knows from experience is not an easy effect to achieve, but that’s… it. Castiel tries hard not to feel let down, but the redhead just pokes her head up and _squeals._ “It’s _perfect,”_ she gushes. “Dean, how did you make that whole thing disappear?! It’s like it was never even there, even though the shoes are so much smaller!” 

_Oh._ If that’s the case, then this truly _is_ some impressive work. The skin around the shoes is alabaster-smooth and clear, with no sign there was ever anything else there at all. It’s almost _impossible_ to restore magically-inked skin in that fashion, Castiel would know, that’s not a skill he has in his arsenal. A good cover-up, sure, but not the ability to _erase_ actual ink. His interest in possibly securing Dean’s services heightens.

“Take ‘em for a spin,” Dean says gruffly and Charlie grins, watching her abdomen as the sparkly heels click together three times. She throws her head back and laughs before leaning forward and grabbing Dean’s head, yanking him in to kiss him roughly on the cheek. “Geroff, Charles,” Dean protests, ducking free to return his tattoo gun to its holder by the rest of his ink and supplies. “Get out of here,” he demands, turning away from Charlie, but even Castiel can see that his cheeks are pink and he’s smiling. Apparently, _humble_ really runs in the family, and endearing isn’t far behind. 

Clutching his book in his hands, Castiel steels himself to make conversation. Speaking of skills that aren’t in his arsenal, it’s not just ink erasure—casual social interaction has never been his forte, and it’s something Castiel nearly always has to work up to. As soon as the redhead has said her goodbyes and Dean’s finished cleaning up his station, he’s decided, he’s going to make his move. The reality of the situation is, Castiel’s tired of living with the mess he’s carting around on his back, and Dean’s skill set is exactly what he needs. Add to that the compassion, empathy, and skill in which he crafted the particular coverup Castiel witnessed for his friend and really, there’s nothing else to think about. Dean is the tattoo artist for him. 

While he waits, Castiel busies himself with perusing Dean’s sample books and the merch he has displayed for sale. There’s even an Ipad on the table, pre-loaded with a slideshow of a selection of Dean’s magical tattoos, and Castiel swipes through them with growing interest. There are plenty of examples that are equally as animated and complicated as Castiel is looking for himself, and they go a long way towards reassuring him that he’s doing the right thing. 

He’s so engrossed in analyzing Dean’s various finished pieces on the Ipad that he doesn’t notice the shadow drop over him from the man standing on the opposite side of the table. When Castiel looks up, he’s struck completely dumb by the pair of gorgeous emerald-green eyes blinking back at him. His mouth, suddenly dry as a bone, drops open but nothing comes out as he takes in the faint smattering of freckles dusting the man’s face, the curve of his soft, plush lips and the perfect dash of scruff painting his chin, so flawless that Castiel can’t help but wonder if it was tattooed on, too. 

_Dean Winchester,_ up close and personal, puts the Dean Winchester Castiel has seen on social media and in magazines and from various advertisements and interviews to complete and utter shame. As soon as their eyes meet, something electric flashes between them, something deep and powerful and gripping that Castiel couldn’t begin to put a name to if he tried. 

_There’s no use in fighting this,_ Castiel realizes, groping at the table for something to hold onto, to keep himself upright in the face of— _what exactly is happening here?_ Castiel truly has no idea, but Dean is very clearly feeling it too and that’s... something. In the end, they’re left standing and staring stupidly at each other, Dean being the one who ultimately breaks the silence.

“I know you,” he says carefully, brow knitting together slightly as he thinks. “You’re Cas Novak, right? You used to work for Balthazar at _Sainted Angels._ I love your work, man. Huge fan.” 

Blinking in surprise, Castiel takes a step back and touches a hand to his chest. “Me?” he says, shocked. “That is… entirely unexpected.” The resulting grin he gets in response is nearly enough to knock Castiel off his feet, but he forces himself to try and act cool, to not stutter like a fangirl or stare blankly like the socially awkward freak he knows that he is. “I was hoping,” he starts and then hesitates, nearly losing his nerve now that the time has come and Dean is so much more… _Dean_ than he expected. In other circumstances, he’d like to take this man to dinner, to buy him a drink, to see if he’d be interested in _him_ , in getting to know each other and finding out of that electric _pull_ was a weird one-off, or something much more important. 

But he needs Dean, and he came here for a reason, and while Castiel’s entirely aware that hiring Dean for such a tricky piece _and_ asking Dean out are two emotionally-charged things he should probably not be attempting at the same time, he’s having a very hard time focusing on _why_ that is. 

“If you know who I am, then you’ll understand when I tell you that I’m in need of your particular set of skills, and that not just anyone will do.” As Castiel speaks, Dean’s cocky, flirty grin fades to something more mellow, but he continues regarding Castiel with open interest. 

“A cover up?” Dean guesses correctly, his hands absently organizing some of the artwork displayed on the table between them. Castiel nods and Dean looks thoughtful. He shoots a glance over in his brother’s direction, but Sam is busy with a new client and Dean just strokes his chin. “Charlie was my last for today,” he muses, and then opens his mouth like he’s going to ask a question before stopping and narrowing his eyes. “Can I ask you something?” It’s Castiel’s turn to nod. “You and Balthazar—are you still—”

“No,” Castiel answers quickly, punctuating his reply with a shake of his head and a grimace. “And while I’m sure you were asking about professionally, I’m well aware of how rumors travel in this community so I’d also like to clarify that the answer is also no to whether we are involved personally, as well.” 

The grin returns to Dean’s face full-force and Castiel can’t help but flush a little under his attention—it’s daunting. Dean’s presence is so full, so lively, so all-encompassing in a way that Castiel is totally unprepared for, but it’s been ages since he felt this sort of instant spark, and he can’t say that he’s not enjoying it. Just then, Dean’s gaze dips to Castiel’s hands, taking notice of the book he’s holding. Slightly self-conscious, Castiel forces himself not to shrink or hide; he’s not ashamed of his taste, in fact, he’s proud of it. If Dean is going to mock him for loving Michael Shield’s fantasy novels, Castiel would rather know now and save himself the trouble of getting invested only to be hurt later.

“You get that copy from the library?” Dean asks lightly, though there’s something else lurking in his tone that Castiel can’t quite put his finger on. “It’s pretty beat-up, should get your money back.” He winks, clearly finding his own joke amusing. 

Surprised, Castiel holds the book up and smiles ruefully before shrugging. “No,” he replies, “It’s one of my favorites. I’m afraid I’ve read it so many times now that the love is really starting to rub off. If this book were the Velveteen Rabbit, it would have long since become real and hopped away. What about you, have you read it?” 

He looks expectantly back at Dean, who doesn’t answer. Instead, he tips his head and bites his lip, shakes a finger in Castiel’s direction and tells him to hang on. 

As Castiel waits, Dean hops over to the other side of the extended booth where Sam is working. They exchange a few words and Sam looks up with eyebrows raised, darting a glance in Castiel’s direction, followed by a two-fingered wave, since the rest of them are wrapped around his gun. Sam nods and Dean claps his shoulder, grabbing his jacket as he makes his way back to where Castiel is standing. “You got any plans for tonight?” Dean asks, eyes twinkling. 

“Oh, um. No? Not yet,” he replies, stumbling over his words and resisting the urge to tell Dean that he’d just planned to sit in his apartment quietly, but his ungraceful answer has Dean looking positively delighted. Jacket on, he rounds the table and hooks an arm through Castiel’s, leading him out onto the convention floor without hesitation. 

“What would you say to a tour of the Bunker? We’ll talk shop, have some beers, get to know each other better. And then, you know, we’ll decide together if I’m the right guy to fix up whatever that British douchebag fucked up on you.”

Dean’s presence at his side is intoxicating, but his words bring Castiel up short, have him stopping dead in the middle of the aisle between the lines of booths and staring up at the few inches that Dean has on him warily. “How did you know it was Balthazar?” Castiel asks softly, holding his book tighter while simultaneously doing his best to suppress the tremor that threatens to destabilize his voice. “I never…” 

The smile on Dean’s face turns a little sad, and his grip tightens around Castiel’s arm. “Well, like you said, rumors travel fast, but mostly? Just a hunch, from a guy who’s been there.” Dean’s silent for a moment as Castiel scans his face, seeing only sincerity and perhaps a hint of regret. It’s genuine enough that he finds himself nodding and letting Dean lead him on. “For what it’s worth,” Dean says conversationally as they stroll together, “I never liked that snotty bastard. You and me? Probably would’ve been friends a long time ago if he wasn’t tangled up in your life like plastic wrap in water.”

Castiel snorts, but the smile starts melting off of his face when he notices that they’re quickly approaching _Sainted Angels’_ booth. Perhaps he can just shrink behind Dean and—

“Boy, he really messed you up,” Dean comments, and Castiel isn’t entirely sure if he loves or hates how incredibly blunt Dean is about—apparently—everything. In response, Castiel just scowls, but Dean chews his lip thoughtfully. “Stop me if I’m out of line,” he says, and before Castiel can react, he’s scooping an arm around Castiel’s waist and tugging him close, like they’re intimate, like they’ve _been intimate_ and this is just natural for them. The gesture forces Castiel into Dean’s side, has him fitting an arm around Dean’s narrow waist, the other touching his chest for balance and _oh—this is very pleasant._

They fall into step far too easily, the lines of Dean’s body firm but welcoming, and he’s warm, easy to sink into. When Castiel sniffs experimentally (he’s basically crushed into the guy’s side, it’s only natural) he finds that Dean smells like a woodsy sort of cologne, spicy and musky, and just the faintest hint of sweat from work. In truth, Castiel has to swallow down a groan, this man is ticking _all_ of his fantasy boxes, and while it’s been a _long_ time since he indulged, he has to keep reminding himself that there’s so much more at stake. 

Up close, Castiel suddenly realizes that the charm Dean wears around his neck—a horned totem hanging from a leather cord—is not just _any_ amulet. Of all people, Castiel would recognize it anywhere. He glances down at the book in his hand and confirms, but his instincts were right—that’s the same necklace Michael Shield’s main character, Jensen, wears in every single book. On close inspection, Castiel discovers that Dean isn’t actually wearing a necklace at all—it’s a _tattoo,_ and the magical component makes it swing and sway with the movements of his body, just like a real piece of jewelry would. In awe, Castiel makes a mental note to ask about that later. This, at least, explains Dean’s reaction to Castiel and the book—he must be a _huge_ fan himself if he’s willing to tattoo something like that onto his skin.

So caught up in the revelations about Dean and his potential interest in something Castiel holds near and dear to his heart (not to mention the way Dean is literally holding _him_ so securely), Castiel forgets to be anxious as they approach Balthazar’s booth. He comes back to reality right as they pass, just in time to see Bal himself look up and register Castiel and Dean tucked into each other’s arms, Dean raising his middle finger boldly in Bal’s direction as they walk on by. Laughter bubbles up in his throat and Castiel lets it out, feeling reckless and wild as Dean grins down at him and leads him confidently out the front door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hold that "Michael Shield" pen name against me. 😂 I couldn't resist.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _As Castiel exits his vehicle and locks the door behind him, Dean reaches out to straighten the sign that hangs from the arm of the light pole, a simple painted affair that simply reads, “The Bunker,” with an arrow pointing down towards the stone-set door._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you should probably thank Jen for the readability of basically everything I put out there:  
> [CoinofStone on Tumblr](https://coinofstone.tumblr.com)

As far on the outskirts of the city as Dean’s shop is, Castiel doesn’t have much choice other than to follow behind Dean’s car in his own beat-up truck. It’s the obvious, smart choice—after all, he’ll have to go home at some point and it seems rude to create a situation where Dean will feel obligated to drive him there. At the same time, Castiel would be lying if he said he wasn’t disappointed in having to pass up the chance to ride in Dean’s sleek and dark, perfectly-kept muscle car, or maybe he’s just reluctant to leave Dean’s side. Whatever the winning reason, Castiel nearly takes Dean up on his offer anyway, even if that would mean having to walk several miles on pitch-black undeveloped roads just to get back to his own apartment in town. 

As he navigates carefully in the wake of Dean’s taillights, Castiel takes a moment to simply be thankful that the convention was held locally for both him and Dean. There’s no telling how this might have gone if one or both of them had been from out of town or had to travel for the experience. Honestly, Castiel doubts he would have bothered engaging Dean at all in either scenario—the fact that he _could_ run home with his tail between his legs if things didn’t go well was the defining push that brought him to the convention at all. So perhaps that’s a moot point. 

Similarly, Castiel reflects on what Dean said about the two of them becoming friends “a long time ago” had it not been for Balthazar. He supposes that’s not such a strange thing to say. Perhaps the strange thing is the two of them living in the same city, working in the same industry, moving in the same circles and never crossing paths until Castiel stepped in and intentionally crossed them. 

Just after exiting the highway that brought them out of the city proper, Dean turns off the main drag onto a frontage road that’s barely paved and not particularly well-maintained. The sun’s gone down, on the early side thanks to the time of year, and Castiel finds himself relieved he never tried to make the trek to Dean’s studio alone. Aside from the occasional streetlight, there’s nothing at all back here besides looming, shadowed woods and a horror-movie vibe, and without Dean’s car in front of him assuring the way, there’s a zero percent chance Castiel wouldn’t have turned around by now. 

Out of the darkness, a dilapidated building rises up to Castiel’s right, an old and long-since abandoned power plant, if looks are anything to go by. Dean pulls off the road here and parks, right in front of an isolated doorway that almost appears to be set directly into the side of the hill behind it. Taken aback, Castiel hesitates to get out of the car, almost wondering whether Dean’s intentions with him are actually good. He feels slightly guilty for even thinking it, but they _are_ in the middle of nowhere, in front of what appears to be some sort of secret hideout. If it weren’t for the old-fashioned gaslight at the top of the stairs, casting a glow over the parking area and the steps leading down to the sunken door, Castiel might have taken his foot off of the brake and bailed right then. 

Common sense reigns, thankfully, as Dean waits patiently, almost nervously at the top of the steps. As Castiel exits his vehicle and locks the door behind him, Dean reaches out to straighten the sign that hangs from the arm of the light pole, a simple painted affair that simply reads, “ _The Bunker,”_ with an arrow pointing down towards the stone-set door. 

“I know it looks sketchy from the outside,” Dean admits and Castiel just raises his eyebrows, not disagreeing. “But it really is a cool place. Used to be a survival bunker years ago; bunch of rich guys with too much money and too much time on their hands renovated it completely, just in case the world got nuked and they needed somewhere to keep smoking their cigars and drinking their brandy safely. There’s actually a back way in, a tunnel that leads straight into the garage, but I figured you probably wouldn’t appreciate feeling like I was leading you down into the Batcave.” He turns and starts down the short flight of stairs, Castiel following a lot more slowly, hand brushing over the sturdy, steel railing on the way down.

“And how did you come to take ownership of it?” 

Dean makes a disgruntled little noise as he fumbles with his keys. “Long story,” he mutters. “Let’s just say it was handed down through the family.” 

While Castiel is certainly curious about what that means, he doesn’t press and Dean doesn’t offer, finally succeeding in opening the door and walking through. The lights are already on inside, and even from the limited view Castiel has from where he’s standing, he can immediately tell that the outside gives away _nothing_ about what the inside has to offer. 

“I know it’s sort of weird,” Dean hedges, that hint of nervousness and slight embarrassment coloring his voice again as Castiel steps past him onto an iron balcony and a staircase that overlooks an enormous room below. “Not the kind of place that you’re going to get townies or drunk college students stumbling into for their first ass-unicorn or four-leaf-clover tattoo. But me and Sam’s business has always functioned mostly on word of mouth and we’re good with it staying that way. ‘Specially since we live here, too. Just, you know, works out better all around.” 

Slipping past him, Dean starts down the stairs while Castiel continues to marvel at everything he’s seeing. “The Bunker” is truly surprising; beautifully crafted and maintained, nothing at all like its crumbling exterior facade. The atrium they’re standing in is two full stories high, the walls and pillars carved out of marble or another stone that looks a lot like it. The wrought-iron balcony they’d stepped out onto boasts a coffee table and several luxurious winged-back chairs on one side, probably some sort of waiting or consult area, judging by the coffee and tea bar pushed up against the railing behind them and the stack of magazines adorning the table. 

As Castiel descends the staircase, he can’t help but admire the two-story display of backlit glass “windows” to his right. They’re obviously fake, since not even the tops of them are visible from the outside, a tromp l’oeil that Castiel finds extremely effective at convincing his own brain that he’s not underground at all. There’s plenty of other lighting as well, soft and homey, doing its part to showcase that this is a welcoming space, and Castiel is suddenly glad that he didn’t run. 

The lower floor of the atrium is set up like a reception area, with plenty of plush looking couches and chairs, a huge TV mounted on the wall, and a full bar sweeping across the entire right side of the room. Dean catches him eyeing it up and shrugs sort of sheepishly, but Castiel’s certainly not judging. It’s clear from looking that “The Bunker” is a lot more than just the Winchesters’ studio and apparently, Dean and Sam’s home—it’s also a space they’ve crafted to be welcoming towards anyone invited into it. For various reasons he’s not sure he could articulate, that makes Castiel feel warm, too, considering how he came to be here, and he smiles back at Dean, hopefully showing that he understands.

“C’mon,” Dean says, waving his arm for Castiel to follow as he steps past a small reception desk and up three more stone steps into an adjacent room, and Castiel follows, curious and wide-eyed. If he’d found the atrium impressive, he’s not sure that he has words for the Winchesters’ actual workspace. 

It’s a library, or, it was at some point, and it’s clear that the boys have worked to retain the atmosphere. More marble pillars, though these are square, built into stunning hardwood floors and bordered by cozy brick walls on all sides. At the far end of the room is a curtained alcove with a giant telescope featured inside, and Castiel’s jaw drops as he tries to take it all in. Aligned end-to-end down the center of the room are three long, dark wooden tables with matching chairs, and Castiel clocks plenty of art supplies and paperwork spread out over each of them. The closest table to the door has a laptop plugged in and Dean gestures to it. 

“Sam,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Kid loves all that digital art shit.” 

Nodding, Castiel wanders further into the space, letting his eyes rove over what must be Dean’s table. It’s more basic than Sam’s—where Sam has stacks of books and technology, Dean has a few staple reference texts about magical art infusion and the rest is practical supplies. Pencils, pens, even charcoal and paints. Castiel respects that, can relate to it, and it makes him like Dean even more. 

Turning his attention to the rest of the library, he takes in the way the boys have divided the sides of the room into stations. Using bookcases that match the tables and are filled to the brim with works on magic, art, and all sorts of other things Castiel would _love_ to get his hands on, they’ve created private alcoves that still fit with the aesthetic of the room. Different alcoves have different styles of chair or tables meant for different tattooing needs, and Castiel thinks he recognizes Dean’s style in the stations to the left, while Sam’s are probably the ones to the right. 

It’s all a bit overwhelming and unlike anything Castiel has seen before in his entire career. The places Castiel trained and freelanced at, including (or perhaps especially) Balthazar’s shop, were all sterile and bordering on personality-free. That whole concept always sat uncomfortably with Castiel, being in such stark contrast with what they _did_ for a living. Balthazar never understood his gripe, would never even entertain him about it, and perhaps Castiel resents that too. But _this—_ something about this place calls to him, tells Castiel that it’s where he’s meant to be, that he’s come home.

Of course, that’s silly. He’s just met Dean, and this is Dean’s home and almost certainly, he’s getting ahead of himself. Still, as Castiel turns to look at Dean in wonderment and finds the man with hands shoved deep in his pockets, staring back with a soft, appreciative smile on his face, something inside him starts to wonder. Perhaps it’s not so strange, after all.

***

Against all odds and everything Castiel’s prepared himself for when it comes to having this discussion, talking to Dean about his history with Balthazar and his messed up tattoo turns out to be quite easy. Perhaps that’s because Dean’s somewhat of an open book himself, offering anecdotes and personal stories from his own life that both help Castiel get to know him and serve to keep him from spiraling too far into unhappy nostalgia while he recounts his own bullshit. 

They wind up on one of the couches in the atrium and Dean, a surprisingly thoughtful host, brings out a plate of sandwiches before pouring them each a generous three fingers of whiskey and leaving the bottle he’d retrieved from the bar. Grateful for the liquid courage, Castiel perhaps favors the whiskey more heavily than he should on an empty stomach, only too late attempting to compensate with meat and cheese. Neither of which puts much of a damper on his significant buzz. 

The result is a Castiel that’s somewhat looser and less uptight about sharing than usual, which he needs to be anyway—Dean deserves to have all of the background information before he decides whether he even _wants_ to attempt what Castiel is seeking. 

Between sips and bites, Castiel pours out his entire relationship with Balthazar. How they met while Castiel while still in art school, how Balthazar had been a guest speaker in a “practical applications” class meant for students who had no idea what they wanted to do with their talents upon graduation. Smitten with tattooing from the jump and even more so with the idea of specializing in _magical_ ink, Castiel had gladly played the part of wide-eyed ingenue; Bal the role of the captivating mentor who was happy to take him under his wing. Bal had been in the game for years at that point, already with his own shop and a reputation that kept him in designer clothing without even trying, so it was a match made in Heaven, at least in Castiel’s opinion at the time.

At first, Bal had been careful to maintain distance between the two of them; setting Castiel up to apprentice with one of his shop’s employees and not himself, letting Castiel grow as an artist and a creator without undue pressure on _how,_ exactly, he should go about doing that. In retrospect, Castiel can see now the ways in which Bal was carefully manipulative about various situations, exerting his influence in the most subtle of ways, making Castiel feel as if he was making his own choices, all the while ensuring those choices benefitted Bal in whatever way he saw fit. 

Eventually, that began to extend to Castiel’s personal life. The first time Balthazar kissed him, Castiel was already a full-fledged artist in his employ. At that point, he still had stars in his eyes when it came to the man—in many ways, Castiel owed him his entire life, certainly his career. Aside from that, just the idea of being _wanted_ by someone as skilled and as talented, as _successful_ as Balthazar was, well, it was flattering. Even now Castiel’s not sure he can be blamed for falling so easily into that trap.

And Balthazar wasn’t a _bad_ man, not really. At least, not where it came to their relationship. He never treated Castiel badly, never forced him to do things sexually that he wasn’t interested in. Bal just knew what he wanted and wasn’t averse to being manipulative and controlling on occasion to get it. Still, even knowing that, Castiel hadn’t been unhappy with him. At Balthazar’s side, he’d enjoyed his life in general, his job in Balthazar’s shop, and he and Balthazar had many good times together. 

Ultimately, the only thing Castiel _really_ wishes he could change about any of it has to do with the way that he ended things, and he tells Dean as much. The rest—well, those were learning experiences, everyone has them. It truly was the way Balthazar behaved _after_ that was the problem and Castiel… well, perhaps he should have seen it coming. 

The day Castiel broke up with him, Balthazar seemed to take it well. They’d gone to Balthazar’s favorite martini bar and Bal had nursed drink after drink, listening in what appeared to be a thoughtful manner as Castiel laid himself bare. As kindly as he was able, Castiel had explained that while he loved Bal as a friend, he wasn’t _in_ love with him, and he thought they both deserved better than that. The conversation had been calm and civil, they’d embraced before parting, and Castiel had gone home that night feeling relieved. It was as if a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders, sure as Castiel was that he’d managed to preserve both a friendship that was valuable to him and his job in Balthazar’s shop. 

That notion seemed to be validated when he showed up for work the next day and Balthazar treated him like he always had, minus the tongue down his throat and the cheeky requests for sexual favors in the supply closet. In fact, things had been almost _too_ perfectly normal and routine, and perhaps that should have been a clue, too. But even now, Castiel has to wonder why he should have thought the worst of someone who had only ever been kind to him, only ever lifted him up. 

Of course, not everyone felt that way. His brother Gabriel, for instance, was quick to point out that all of the things Balthazar “gave” to Castiel helped him out in some way, too. All the same, Castiel still—even knowing the outcome of it all—thinks that’s a rather cynical way to look at life in general. Most things in the world are quid pro quo, after all. That certainly doesn’t mean that _everyone_ is secretly hiding a monster behind their mask. 

Balthazar was, though. 

Three days after their break-up, Balthazar had blocked off the majority of his day to finish inking Castiel’s most recent tattoo onto his skin. It was something they’d worked on together, something Castiel had spent hours painstakingly sketching, erasing, and sketching again until it was perfect. _Wings._ A metaphor for everything Castiel thought he’d never do, never accomplish but was doing all the same. For his mother, who told him that he’d never amount to anything, that “art” wasn’t a “real” career. For his father, who disappeared into the night without bothering to say anything to Castiel at all. For himself, and all the ways he believed he wasn’t good enough, all the ways he’s since proven himself wrong. Suffice it to say, inking those wings on his skin was a _very_ big deal. 

The wings themselves were meant to stretch across the entirety of Castiel’s back, spilling over onto his shoulders and biceps, the feathers individually drawn and colored a deep, inky, blue-black that would shimmer and change color with movement, appearing to reflect the light. Balthazar had reassured him repeatedly that he had the complicated magical component worked out completely—that when the piece was finished, Castiel would be able to flex and the wings would appear behind him, strong and fierce and glowing, a testament to both his character, his internal strength, _and_ a walking billboard for his (and Bal’s) skills as an artist. 

Sucking in a breath, Castiel has to break here as he recounts this part of the story to Dean, shifting against the couch in what he hopes is a subtle motion. He’s not trying to be rude, but it’s simply too difficult to make eye contact with Dean while sharing this piece of his history. Being vulnerable is one thing, but Castiel’s not actually interested in bursting into tears and Dean’s thoughtful, understanding eyes with their adorable crinkles at the corners might just be the thing that puts him over the edge—if he keeps looking at them. The solution is clearly to turn slightly to the right and focus on repouring his drink, then to play with the rim of the glass where it sits in his lap. 

“So anyway,” he continues, clearing his throat before launching back into sharing his memories of that day. It was a Saturday. It was raining outside. Castiel’s socks had gotten wet on the short walk from his car into the shop and the rubbing of his dress shoes against wet, irritated skin had him considering whether it would be inappropriate to go shoeless. The shop smelled like lemon disinfectant; Balthazar’s cleaning lady had been through earlier that morning. Castiel brought coffee for them both, Balthazar’s $7 latte going mostly untouched, which was irksome. In retrospect, it was all so normal, so mundane.

As for the man himself, Balthazar had been quiet, focused, but he was often that way while working, and Castiel didn’t think much of it. In the entirety of the six hours he sat in Bal’s chair, they exchanged a total of maybe ten words. Castiel had been well-prepared for a long session—spending most of it napping and then later, with earbuds in his ears watching Netflix on his phone, both to entertain himself and to drown out the pain of the tattoo gun buzzing repeatedly over already-sore skin. 

_It will be worth it,_ he’d told himself, somewhere around hour five when the pain was becoming unbearable, and with a little grit and willpower, he’d managed to stick it out. 

By the time Balthazar finished, it was long-past when the sky turned dark outside. As such, the other two artists that had been around earlier had already gone home for the day. Balthazar had seemed oddly smug when he sat back on his stool, but Castiel just chalked that up to his being pleased with his work. He wasn’t wrong. 

On Bal’s command, Castiel had stood with excitement, barely able to contain himself in anticipation of seeing his beautiful wings on display for the first time, both on his skin and in the air. It would surely be one of the most impressive pieces he’d ever seen. 

The self-satisfied look on Balthazar’s face as they approached the mirrors should have clued him in that something was wrong, but without context, Castiel didn’t even realize that’s what it was. Not until much later when he was sitting in his apartment crying into a pillow, did all the pieces coalesce and become clear in the absolute worst way. 

No, as Balthazar walked him between the two mirrors set up in the shop’s hallway for just such an occasion, all Castiel could feel was _thrilled._

“Flex,” Balthazar commanded as Castiel stood shirtless and staring at his reflection in the mirror, barely giving him a moment to glance over the ink on his skin. There was… something wrong with it, that he could tell from the jump. The outline of the wings was there, bone and muscle—anatomically, the wings existed, but they were _wrong._ Where there should have been feathers, there was mostly damaged skin. Burn marks, broken alulas, misshapen and sad-looking bruised appendages that appeared _nothing_ like what Castiel had envisioned, what he designed.

“What…” was all he could manage at first, the breath stolen from his lungs as he tried to make sense of the mess marring his back, but Balthazar just looked on coldly.

“Flex,” he repeated, arms crossed tightly across his chest, and it was then that Castiel thought he might have understood what was happening. Surely, Balthazar wouldn’t do something so deliberately hurtful, so elaborately deceitful— _would he?_ There _had_ to be another explanation, this was just too cruel to consider. Perhaps Castiel was simply getting ahead of himself. Perhaps this was all an elaborate illusion, something Balthazar created to surprise him with, and it would transform to the wings he was expecting when Castiel flexed. 

Presently, Castiel explains this theory to Dean using the example of Sam’s evolving tattoo for Benny and the way the roses grew from a barren nothing to a host of full blooms under Benny’s attentions. “That _must_ have been it, had to be,” Castiel explains, recounting his own desperate feelings inside that moment, his frantic and terrible need for reality to _not_ be what it so obviously was. 

In his peripheral vision, Dean winces and stays silent, giving Castiel all the time he needs to continue and not pushing when his one long sip of whiskey turns into three. Though he doesn’t speak, Dean does reach out an arm, draping it across the back of the sofa like he _wants_ to touch Castiel and provide comfort but isn’t sure it would be welcomed. Any other time, Castiel would have been happy to pause and correct Dean’s misgivings, but he fears that if he stops now, he’ll never get this out. 

“So I flexed,” Castiel says, diving back into the story head first as the ice rattles in his glass. 

He’d flexed, and watched in the mirror as his new wings came to life for the first time. To Balthazar’s credit, they appeared behind him just as they’d planned, just as they’d worked together to have them do. Except, despite rising proudly in the space over Castiel’s shoulders, they were still every bit the contorted, monstrous messes inked flat onto his skin. There was no transformation, no magical moment where the wings turned from ruined to healed, and Castiel was forced to accept that there wouldn’t be. That this was what he was stuck with. 

Overwhelmed with sadness and fury, he’d choked on air, taking in the way that even the limited feathers he had were damaged and twisted, a few of them appearing to _fall off_ even as he stood there, watching them. His wings were truly grotesque, more like sticks than wings at all, and clearly meant to look as if they _hurt._

They did hurt. Not physically, of course, save for the echoing burn of the tattoo gun pulsing over abraded skin, but in every other way something _can_ hurt. For everything his wings were supposed to represent and display, this was the _exact_ opposite. To Castiel, it felt as if he was looking at a physical manifestation of every insecurity, every dark and warped feeling he’d ever harbored about himself brought to life. _Damaged._ This was how Balthazar wanted people to see him, this was how people _would_ see him, now and forever. 

“A year later and I’m only just now working up the courage to try and have it fixed,” Castiel admits softly. He’s still looking down at his lap, focusing intently on his fingers and where they’re wrapped around the now-empty glass. His head is a little muzzy, warm and heavy with the effects of the alcohol, and he’s glad for it. This was a hard enough conversation to have, no need to endure it sober. 

And perhaps that’s why when Dean’s hand inches closer, when it finally closes the distance and squeezes his shoulder, Castiel leans into it without really thinking about what he’s doing. It’s _definitely_ why he’s able to summon the courage to look up and meet Dean’s eyes.

When he does, it’s a strange comfort to see that Dean looks horrified, not at all as though he thinks Castiel is being overdramatic or ridiculous, and that alone allows him to breathe out some of the anxiety he’s been holding onto while they spoke. “Cas,” Dean says, shifting closer on the couch as his grip tightens on Castiel’s shoulder and his wide, green eyes blink in disbelief. “That shit is _really_ fucked up.” 

Unable to help it, Castiel laughs. Dean’s words are just so… _pure,_ considering the complexity, the layered nuance of the situation and all of Castiel’s feelings about it. For his part, Castiel’s wallowed and dwelled and over-analyzed for a _year_ now. Letting his emotions build up, considering them all carefully, taking months to work up the courage to face them at all. Hearing the reality of it stated so plainly, so bluntly, well, it does Castiel’s soul good. Smiling widely back at Dean, he laughs again and then Dean joins in, and soon they’re giggling drunkenly, heads tipped carelessly onto the back of the couch and faces _way_ too close together, and Castiel just knows he made the right choice in coming here. For more than one reason, though one thing at a time. 

“Alright,” Castiel says, once they’ve both regained some control over their respective emotions, though neither of them moves away. Emboldened by the sustained proximity. Castiel’s fingers develop a mind of their own, working their way across the couch to cover Dean’s hand where it rests splayed against the fabric. “Do you think you can help me?” 

Dean’s smile is blinding as he grins back, nodding without any sign of hesitation. “Oh, hell yes,” he replies. 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OooOoooo what do you think about Cas' history?! Can Dean fix the mess Balthazar made?! Am I just talking about ink? probably not, lol
> 
> Next time: Boys flirting, Castiel's reluctant to show off the goods, Dean has a big reveal too.   
> Next, next time: More than one first (though not the one you're hoping for). 
> 
> Come to talk to me on:  
> [Tumblr](https://castielslostwings.tumblr.com)  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/caslostwings)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we learn that perhaps Dean doesn't have it completely altogether, either, and Cas spreads his wings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't skip the end notes... there's a surprise in there ;-)

It’s a week later, hunched over a preliminary sketch laid out across Dean’s workbench in the library that they finally hammer out the details of the project. A _project_ is definitely what it is, after all—the complex artistry and magic infusion needed to pull it off are both next level. While Dean is confident in his skills, he’s quick to admit that it’ll still be a challenge, albeit one he’s up to and anxious to take on. After quite a bit of hemming and hawing, Dean ultimately predicts that Castiel’s tattoo cover-up will take a minimum of five sessions. Subsequently, Dean’s agreement to take Castiel on is conditional on one thing, and one thing only: that he not try to activate the magic in his wings _or_ look at them on his back until it’s completely done. 

“Sometimes these things look way worse before they look better,” Dean explains, gazing at Castiel thoughtfully like he’s trying to suss out whether he thinks Castiel can be trusted to keep his promise and not peek. “Can’t have you going into some kind of depression spiral, thinking I jacked it up worse when I’m not even there to defend myself.” Dean bites back a smirk as Castiel stares at him, steadfastly unflinching and not actually answering his question. Dean just raises his eyebrows and doesn’t relent, so finally Castiel throws up his hands.

“Alright,” he says, leaning back in the library chair he’s currently occupying, the rough sketch lying forgotten between them. “I was lying the first time I said I wouldn’t but I’m being honest now.” It’s the truth, or close to it, though Castiel knows it’ll be near-impossible to resist, especially when what Dean is _really_ asking for from him is trust. Thing is, when it comes to this tattoo, _trust_ is precisely what Castiel struggles with handing over. In the end, Castiel supposes it’s not only doable but worth it, considering that said trust goes both ways. It’s not as if he _couldn’t_ steal a glimpse when he’s alone in his apartment—Dean would _never even know._

Clearly finding his reticence amusing, Dean leans forward over folded hands. His interlaced fingertips are smeared with color, and Castiel has the odd urge to suck them into his mouth one by one to see if, on Dean’s skin, _red_ and _blue_ and _green_ have different tastes. “The alternative is that I could chain you up in the basement below the Bunker until we’re finished. There’s a dungeon, complete with arm and leg irons.” Dean wiggles his eyebrows and Castiel secretly thrills that it’s so obvious the attraction he feels isn’t one-sided. Still, he resists crossing that line—he’s done it before, and it’s a big part of what got him into this mess. 

Perhaps _after,_ when this piece is done and the tension between them isn’t riddled with painful memories and regret from Castiel’s past—maybe then they can see where things go. If Dean is still interested, of course. If this isn’t just an elaborate ploy to gain Castiel’s trust. Not that he _really_ thinks that’s the case, not that he’d still be anywhere _near_ the Bunker if he did, but his intuition, his innate sense of who is worthy of his faith has failed Castiel before. 

Oblivious to his internal turmoil, Dean keeps talking. “So, if you’re good with that—the plan, not the… chains in the basement thing—then there’s only one thing left to do.” Dean tips his head back, pulling his bottom lip in between his teeth and letting it drag back out slowly. Mesmerized, Castiel just nods, fairly certain he’d happily agree to anything Dean proposes while looking like that. “Show me,” Dean says gently, and those two little words are like a bucket of cold water poured directly over Castiel’s head.

_Right._

Not as if this request is some sort of new concept, or anything he wasn’t expecting. Of course Dean has to see the whole canvas, with all its moving parts, before he can get to work. Up until this point, they’ve been strictly over-the-shirt with the planning, Dean having no issue with using a measuring tape and some traced lines to come up with the relative proper dimensions for his sketch. He’s so careful around Castiel; sensitive, thoughtful—never pushing or acting as if Castiel’s overreacting by wanting to keep his ink disaster under wraps as much as possible. Completely understanding of the way this whole mess is so much more to him than color and blood and skin, and Castiel’s grateful. 

“Wait,” Castiel stops him, one hand out as he hesitates. “Payment, we didn’t discuss…” He clears his throat. “I’m aware of your going rate, but this particular piece is so much more complicated. You should increase your hourly rate, it’s what I would do.” 

The corner of Dean’s lip quirks up as he narrows his eyes and nods once, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded. “You’re askin’ me to charge you _more,_ Cas? Usually I get people in here begging for the opposite.” Dean’s tone is teasing, and Castiel rolls his own eyes in response. 

“I’m treating you the way that I would want to be treated as the artist in this situation,” he pushes, not failing to notice the way Dean chews on the cap of his pen, twisting it in his mouth without using his hands. Castiel has thoughts about how much he would _love_ to be that pen, but this is not the time. 

With a hum, Dean drops said pen to the table with a clatter and taps his foot against the floor. “I’ll make you a deal,” he offers, hand reaching out across the table, palm up, _trust me_ . “Come work with us here. For _Soul Survivor,_ with me and Sam. Let me put you on the website, brag on how the great Castiel Novak is taking clients at the Bunker these days. I know you need a job, and we could sure as hell use the fresh blood. If you’re worried about being under me—” Here, Dean stops and snorts, shaking his head before continuing because apparently, some jokes _are_ entirely too low-hanging fruit, even for him. “We can work it like a contractor position. We use your name, you use the space, bring your own gear or pay me for mine, whatever you want. I’m easy,” Dean finishes with a wink. 

Castiel squints. Dean isn’t wrong about the whole “needing a job” thing, but he can’t quite parse out what _Dean_ and the Bunker get out of this deal. Still, while he certainly has savings, Castiel knows he won’t be able to live on them forever. Plus, he actually does have multiple loyal clients who are waiting to book appointments for work-in-progresses and new pieces alike, and tattooing sporadically out of his living room isn’t doing his reputation any favors. While Dean waits patiently for his answer, Castiel scours his head for a good reason— _any_ reason, really—why he should say no. He comes up empty.

In the end, he’d like to say it’s his need to make money or his interest in getting back to work in a meaningful way that has Castiel reaching out to shake Dean’s hand over the table in a gentleman’s agreement. Truthfully, though—not that Castiel’s admitting it to anyone, but—having a reason to spend additional time at the Bunker is also an excuse to be around Dean more. And that is something Castiel is _very_ interested in, everything else aside. 

After that, there’s no more stalling to be done, and Castiel caves on the idea that his luck has run out. Pushing back from the table, he stands and looks first around the library and then out into the atrium, which he’s learned Dean and Sam affectionately call the “War Room.” It’s late, Castiel having stopped by long after business hours were over, though Sam had some friends here hanging out and they were drinking and playing card games while Castiel and Dean met in the other room. Those people are all gone now, either to their own homes or to crash in one of the many spare rooms the Bunker has to offer inebriated guests. Generous as they are, Sam and Dean apparently think nothing of letting friends use the extra beds and in fact, they keep a host of them made up for that express purpose. Castiel had learned that directly, the first time he’d been here and drank too much to drive himself home safely. 

Regardless, the common spaces of the Bunker are currently abandoned or at least, they appear that way. There’s no accounting for who might be lurking just out of sight, though. At the bare minimum, Sam is here somewhere and this is his home—he could wander in at any moment and be perfectly within his rights to do so. Just thinking about that possibility, Castiel’s fingers falter on the buttons of his dress shirt, and Dean catches on quickly.

“Hey,” he says, appearing like magic at Castiel’s side, the light touch of his fingers on Castiel’s elbow reassuring and humiliating at the same time.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel murmurs, ducking his head. “I know that I must seem—”

“Don’t.” Dean cuts him off, closes his hand the rest of the way around Castiel’s arm and tugs. “You don’t gotta apologize for how you feel and I’m not gonna listen to you beat yourself up about it.” Taken aback, Castiel lets himself be swept along, uncaring that his shirt is unbuttoned halfway down his chest because at least it’s still covering his back. Dean ferries him along down the steps of the library, through the war room, and out a door on the far side. All the while he hangs on to Castiel, a steady harbor in the storm of Castiel’s otherwise building anxiety. Exiting the War Room, Dean heads confidently down the hallway Castiel recognizes from when they’d drunkenly stumbled through it together on the night he stayed over. 

They pass an industrial-style kitchen on the right, continuing on but stopping short of the empty room Dean had set him up in previously. Room 11, that’s what the brass numbers on this door declare it as, and Dean puts a key in the lock before pushing it open. “This is mine,” he mumbles unnecessarily, since yes, Castiel gathered that much. 

Like much of the rest of the Bunker, Dean’s room has somewhat of an industrial feel—smooth, concrete walls and basic, simple wooden furniture including a queen-sized bed, two nightstands, a dresser, and a desk. The space is homey and tidy, though, and Castiel can tell from his quick glance around that Dean takes pride in keeping it that way. There’s a shelf built into the wall that runs the length of the room above his bed, and on it Dean has an assortment of trinkets displayed. Funko pops, some Batman paraphernalia, books, various DVDs. 

There’s also a very fancy looking gun, not that Castiel is any kind of a weapons expert, but it has intricate carving on the barrel and is meticulously displayed in a glass case, so _fancy_ feels like a safe label to apply _._ Of note, amongst Dean’s book collection is a meticulous-looking hardcover set of Michael Shield’s entire arsenal. It makes Castiel smile to see, although oddly, the books are wholly pristine in appearance—as if their bindings haven’t so much as been cracked. 

_That’s strange,_ Castiel thinks, but he lets the thought go, turning his attention to the rest of the room.

What Dean _doesn’t_ have is a ton of art on the walls or color splashed across his space; his bed sports plain white sheets, two nondescript standard pillows, and an army-green knit blanket. It all seems much more suited to outfitting military barracks than an artist’s space, but Castiel knows perfectly well that not every artist wears their passion on their sleeve. Or decorating their home, as it were. Still, Dean’s walls feel bare, as if they’re waiting for something to complete them. But maybe Castiel is projecting. 

With a soft click, the door closes behind them and Dean moves past Castiel into the open middle of the room with a gentle hand brushing against the small of his back as he goes. It’s not unclear what Dean is doing, providing him a safe, private space to literally put his insecurities on display, but what Dean does next is a surprise. Before Castiel can so much as pop another button on his shirt free, Dean’s stripping down to his boxers without so much as a word of explanation.

When he sees Castiel staring back at him in bewilderment, he grins that charming smile Castiel is quickly coming to adore and shrugs, lifting his arms like, _what did you expect?_ When Castiel just looks on quizzically, Dean drops his arms back to his sides and then rests his hands on his hips. “Tit for tat,” he says, presumably by way of explanation, and while from what Castiel can see Dean’s tattoos are gorgeous and flawless (just like the rest of his body, and _God_ is it hard to resist staring), he appreciates the gesture all the same. “What do you think?” 

Stepping closer purely for objective assessment, one artist to another, Castiel takes his time visually cataloging all of Dean’s tattoos. Some are fairly simple, such as the red and raised tribal design on Dean’s right forearm that turns the skin around it equally red and veiny when Dean squeezes his fist. Then there’s the horned amulet around Dean’s neck, which of course, Castiel has already noted. On Dean’s back, a small constellation that he cops to being Aquarius, his astrological sign, adorably inked by connecting his existing freckles together. Not so simple, an inked version of Dean’s ‘67 Impala, perfectly depicted down to the license plate, and several different roads running over various planes of his body. 

The interesting thing about the Impala, though, is that it drives, and not just on tattooed roads. Even as Castiel watches, it circles Dean’s torso just above the line of his boxers and then disappears down the back of Dean’s thigh, following vanishing yellow-lined asphalt that narrows to nothing just below the posterior hinge of Dean’s knee. Fascinated, Castiel stares as the car shrinks smaller and smaller until it’s out of sight. Even knowing that the Impala tattoo is enchanted, Castiel still startles when the car seems to appear out of thin air, driving around the curve of Dean’s neck, down over his left pec, and settling just beneath his ribs on the left side. Dean laughs heartily at his reaction, looking extremely pleased—as well he should be, the work is impressive. 

“Sometimes she turns into a horse,” Dean says casually, his index finger tracing over the Impala’s curves. “You know, like black beauty?” Castiel keeps his eyes fixed on the ink, but the gears in his head are turning. Something about the way Dean is speaking is pinging his radar. If he didn’t know better, Castiel might think that was _another_ reference to the main character of Shield’s novels and the black horse Jensen rides, Baby. 

His light suspicions turn to a much more confident surety when Castiel shifts his attention to the other pieces Dean has adorning his body. 

A fire-breathing dragon on his right shoulder blade, straight out of Shield’s second book and one of the greatest challenges his main character has to overcome. It’s a perfect likeness, down to the iridescent scales bedecking its back and the trove of treasure it guards. 

A pen on the exterior of Dean’s left thigh that rotates and extends, transforming into a sword—that one’s impossible to mistake for anything other than what it is, which is Jensen’s weapon of choice. The sword’s distinct carvings leave no room for misinterpretation—the piece is something Jensen sleeps with under his pillow and is never willingly without. 

Then there’s the black, could-have-been-a-dog-but-is-definitely-a-hellhound on Dean’s right outer thigh. There’s no confusing Jensen’s faithful companion from book three onward; Juliet is a symbol of the character’s desire and ability to connect with and save even the most damned souls, the most wayward creatures, even those who would try and take his own life. 

And, of course, there’s the protection sigil smack in the middle of Dean’s chest, a pentagram ringed by fire, identical to the one Jensen has inked in the very same spot. In the books, the sigil prevents Jensen from being possessed by evil spirits, but it’s also a sign of his commitment to the cause he serves. A badge he wears proudly, if secretly, as an outward sign on his skin of who he is and what he does for the world.

When Castiel steps back, Dean’s looking at him earnestly, like he’s waiting for Castiel to say something specific and Castiel is a little lost. “You left your book on my table in the library,” Dean says pointedly, and Castiel finds himself squinting again, which makes Dean scratch at the back of his neck awkwardly. “I, uh, I know you said that you bring it everywhere, I guess I just thought you were exaggerating.” 

“You’re a fan, too,” Castiel says carefully, though even as he says it his conjecture feels slightly off the mark, confirmed when Dean looks away and laughs softly. 

“Something like that,” he replies. 

Moving over to the shelf displaying all of Dean’s knicknacks, Castiel runs fingers over the (just as he thought) brand-new versions of all the Shield books. “I think you’re going to have to connect these dots for me, Dean,” he admits. “You’re clearly a fan, rabid enough that the majority of your tattoos relate to Jensen’s journey and yet, these books appear to be untouched, as if you’ve never even opened them.” He turns to regard Dean curiously, one hand still wrapped around the first book in the series’ elegant binding. “Not that I blame you, I suppose. I suspect these are actually very expensive first editions, so perhaps you keep your own well-loved copies out in the library itself.” 

Once again, Castiel knows he’s missing the mark, though he still can’t figure out why. For his part, Dean just hooks his fingers together behind his back, ducks his head to the side as the hellhound and the dragon hiss at each other, the dragon’s fire flaring off of Dean’s back and into the air unexpectedly. “You’re trying to distract me, now,” Castiel observes. “And yet, you clearly wanted to show me this, so, why?” 

Dean shrugs before stepping back into his jeans, though he leaves his shirt off for the time being. “You’re about to be vulnerable with me,” he says softly. “I thought I should return the favor. With all the talk we’ve had about tattoos being more than ink, how sometimes the meaning behind them can be complicated and confusing, even when you love the tattoo itself—which I know you don’t—I just thought…” 

While he has no idea what Dean is driving at specifically, Castiel suddenly understands that this is a lot more than a “tit for tat” visual exchange. There’s something more here that Dean is trying to share, and he’s _close,_ he just needs a little… Swallowing down his reluctance to let his walls down, to start to get close to Dean with everything else going on, Castiel follows his gut and steps squarely into Dean’s personal bubble. Without hesitating, he reaches out and places two fingers on the amulet. 

“Tell me about it,” he instructs, holding Dean’s eye contact and standing firm when Dean swallows hard and suppresses a little shiver. It’s nice to know that he has the same sort of effect on Dean that Dean has on him, but that’s a thought for another time. 

“Sam inked that one,” Dean says quietly, so quietly Castiel almost has to strain to hear and he looks just off to Castiel’s left as he talks. “Well, he did all of these, actually, ‘cept one, but this was the first. Thought it was fitting, since Jared gives Jensen the amulet in the series. With them being brothers and all.” When Dean finishes speaking, his eyes find Castiel’s once again, and they look almost pleading.

It suddenly occurs to Castiel that there might be a very obvious answer here, one that he was completely disregarding for the pure absurdity of it, the extreme unlikelihood that he could _ever_ be so lucky as to… _No,_ he reprimands himself. _Don’t get carried away. There’s no possible way that Dean Winchester, perfection that he is, could also be…_

But the pieces sure do fit together as flawlessly as Dean’s ink adorns his skin, and Castiel decides, _what the hell?_ The least he can do is test the waters. “So… you’re not actually a rabid fangirl?” 

Dean’s laugh is even more subdued this time as he shakes his head. “Not exactly,” he hedges. 

There’s heat between the two them, shared from both of their bodies since Castiel’s yet to step away and Dean looks more than comfortable where he is too. “Dean,” Castiel says slowly. “Stop me if this leap is not the puddle-sized one I think it is and in reality I am attempting to hop across the Grand Canyon.” When Dean just smiles shyly and lets his hand come to rest on Castiel’s hip, he takes a deep breath and continues. “Are you… Michael Shield?”

“No,” Dean says petulantly, right before he rolls his eyes and shrugs. “I’m Dean Winchester,” he clarifies. “Michael is just an alias.” 

Annoyed, Castiel slaps his pec lightly, amused at the way the amulet jumps slightly when he does. “You ass,” he chides, huffing a disbelieving little chuckle. “And you’re _ashamed_ of this? I can’t say that I’ve ever encountered someone so determinedly self-deprecating, Winchester. _Without_ your success as a writer you have more talent in your little finger than most people have in their entire bodies. The way you create artwork, the way you create _worlds,_ it’s—Well, actually, now that I know it’s you, I believe I can see a lot of similarities, but I’m no less blown away for it.” Dean goes back to looking determinedly _not_ at Castiel, though he makes a grunting noise that suggests he disagrees with Castiel’s assessment and Castiel frowns. 

“Your books got me through some very tough times,” he says after a long moment, pulling back slightly to put some space between them. “Not to sound like a starstruck fan—though, that’s exactly what I am—but I’d appreciate if you wouldn’t put your work down in front of me. If the goal in revealing this information tonight was to put us both on more even footing, then it follows you should also work on overcoming those feelings of shame.” 

Dean’s eyes are slightly shiny when he looks up, and Castiel smiles warmly. “Cas, listen,” Dean says hesitantly. “Only like, five people in the world besides my publisher know about this. It may seem stupid or whatever to you that I’m… _closeted_ about my writing, but it’s just how I am, so if you’re gonna judge me—”

“I would never judge you,” Castiel interrupts. “And my comments weren’t about that. I simply said, in front of _me._ You should work on overcoming your shyness and shame in front of me."Mouth snapping closed, Dean’s expression shifts and he looks at Castiel appreciatively, like that’s exactly the reaction he was hoping for. In response, Castiel quickly thumbs open his buttons and shrugs his shirt off, tossing it over the back of the chair at Dean’s desk. He’s not remotely ignorant to the way Dean’s eyes roam over his skin, taking in his tattoos and probably the mole above his right nipple, as well as everything else that’s now on display. This would be the point where his nerves would be expected to take over and threaten to freeze him in place, but surprisingly (maybe Dean’s revelation did its job), Castiel feels fine. 

Still, he starts out by facing Dean and closing his eyes to activate the magic in his wings. From behind his eyelids, Castiel can see the room brightening with the light show that accompanies their appearance, probably casting some interesting shadows against Dean’s bedroom wall. There’s a sharp intake of breath, and Castiel, while he’s no longer feeling embarrassed or ashamed, can’t bear to watch Dean’s reaction. Instead, he recounts in his own mind what Dean must see; the sparsely feathered stretches of damaged bone and muscle, ultra-real-looking and all the more devastating for it. 

“Cas,” Dean says gently, and Castiel opens his eyes reluctantly, holding the magic since he’s not sure whether or not Dean’s done looking. It shocks Castiel, makes him blink several times just in case his vision is still clearing, when Dean’s face isn’t at all disgusted or filled with pity. He’s standing awfully close, peering over Castiel’s shoulder so that he can get a good look at the details, and when he turns his head, they’re nearly nose-to-nose. “I know how you feel about these, Cas,” Dean murmurs, his voice reverent as his hand reaches out, seemingly only remembering at the last second that the wings aren’t tangible and pulling it back. “But these are fucking incredible and you look…” He pauses, shakes his head and steps back several paces, admiring the entire picture while Castiel shifts uncomfortably. “Fucking incredible.” 

When Castiel doesn’t answer, Dean holds up his camera. “Okay if I…?” he asks and Castiel nods, swallowing the discomfort that he feels at having pictures of this mess out there in the world. _No,_ he corrects himself. _Not “out there in the world,” just with Dean. Dean is trustworthy._

“This way, you won’t have to do this again, not if you don’t want to. But Cas,” Dean adds, clearly no better than he is at leaving scabbed-over insecurities unpicked-at. “These… are fucking _badass._ Not that I’m saying what that douchebag did to you was anything less than completely fucked up and shitty—don’t get me wrong. Give me a tire iron and five minutes alone with the dude, that’s all I need, I swear, but—” Dean waves his hand dismissively. “It’s not about him at all. It’s about how you carry them, buddy.” As he talks, Dean focuses his camera and starts taking some shots while Castiel remains silent. 

“They’ve got this kind of… cool, death metal vibe, I think. Makes you look like you went through some crazy shit. Like you were thrown into an epic battle where you had to fight for your life and somehow, you made it out the other side, beat to hell but alive… Jensen would dig these things, man. Seriously, you know it’s true. Shit, I dunno how to—” Dean stops suddenly, dropping the camera down and motioning for Castiel to turn around, which he does, still without comment. 

In his peripheral vision, the tips of his destroyed wings sway, charred and painful to look at. It’s difficult to see them as anything but a hot mess, but at the same time, Dean’s words sit heavy in the back of his mind. Despite his anxiety and his frustration with his current tattoo, what Dean said makes Castiel think. Not that he believes he could ever learn to love his wings the way that they are, but perhaps he should consider looking at them a bit more closely. Not literally, of course. Not yet, anyway. The thing is—and this is always something that’s persisted at the back of Castiel’s mind—even covered up, the scars of what Balthazar did will always be there, just beneath the surface. It _would_ be better for Castiel if he could own them and not allow them to continue owning him. _Maybe,_ with Dean’s help, he can find a way to do just that. 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of Dean's tattoos and his big reveal? There's a bit more to Dean than meets the eye here, isn't there?
> 
> Next time: A first ink session, Cas shares about his other tattoos, self-awareness is a journey.  
> Next, next time: Everything that can go wrong does, Dean likes Cas anyway and some things are not a sign from the universe. Plus, Dean opens up about why he understands Cas and his ink issues _so_ well. 
> 
> So here's my proposal—I think I've dropped enough vague hints that one of the tats on Dean is not like the others. If you can guess, in the comments, which tattoo is Dean's "problem" tattoo AND who inked it (there are no clues about that yet, so you're on your own to connect the dots, lol) I'll write you into a future scene getting inked by Cas or Dean, your choice. :-D  
> EDIT NOTE: It's NOT the MOC! Dean definitely inked that one and wasn't including himself in his, "except one," probably because he, like the author, has a swiss cheese brain. 😂


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Butterflies flutter in Castiel’s stomach, his nerves out in full force tonight, though for once it isn’t because of the tattoo and his reluctance to show it off. No, Dean has already seen all there is to see in that department, and in fact, Castiel’s nearly over hiding his damaged ink completely. To prove it (to himself, if no one else), he’s not wearing his normal button-down, having swapped it out for a tight-fitting black t-shirt that allows the very tips of his wings to spill from the bottom of the sleeves, curving down his biceps._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI I did add a tag for "Anxious Castiel." I wasn't sure originally if it would rise to being tag-worthy, but he comes close to a panic attack for reasons. The relevant content for that is in the next chapter, but if that is something bothersome to you, just an FYI that it is coming.

A week later, Castiel returns to the bunker for his first official ink session with Dean. Once again, he arrives on the late side of the evening and the Bunker is cleared out except for Sam and his friends. Castiel waves as he passes through the War Room, enjoying the atmosphere of everyone laughing and playing games while drinking merrily, secretly pleased when Sam waves back and follows it with a hearty, “Hey, Cas! Nice to see you, man.” 

Butterflies flutter in Castiel’s stomach, his nerves out in full force tonight, though for once it isn’t because of the tattoo and his reluctance to show it off. No, Dean has already seen all there is to see in that department, and in fact, Castiel’s nearly over hiding his damaged ink completely. To prove it (to himself, if no one else), he’s not wearing his normal button-down, having swapped it out for a tight-fitting black t-shirt that allows the very tips of his wings to spill from the bottom of the sleeves, curving down his biceps. 

This new and improved attitude is due in no small part to Dean himself, who Castiel has been texting with nearly nonstop since they’d parted a week ago. It’s clear at this point that their interactions have taken on a flirtatious tone, _just_ over the line from professional and platonic but no farther than that. In truth, Castiel couldn’t say whether he’s disappointed or relieved by the boundaries both he and Dean seem to be hovering within, though he can admit that for the time being, it’s probably for the best. There’s his tattoo to think about _and_ the fact that he’s due to start working on clients in the Bunker’s studio this week. Tomorrow, actually. 

All the same, Castiel enjoys talking to Dean and he’s fairly certain (if the frequency and volume of his texts are anything to go by) that Dean feels the same way. They’ve covered all sorts of topics from family to hobbies, to more about Dean’s writing and his self-consciousness regarding it, all the way back to Castiel and his wings. Messaging Dean has become the highlight of Castiel’s day, the first thing he thinks about when he wakes up and the last before he falls asleep at night (usually to the squint-inducing LED light of the phone’s screen still lit up next to him). 

Dean’s no different over text than he is in person; warm and friendly, sweet and encouraging. It seems to be easier for him to open up about his own insecurities when they’re not face-to-face, and Castiel can understand and appreciate that just fine. Contrary to Castiel’s intentions when he got into this whole thing with Dean, it does feel like they’re building something, something big. The way Castiel’s heart clenches when he thinks about walking out the Bunker doors and never seeing Dean again after his tattoo is finished tells him that he’s already in deep, that it’s probably pointless to fight the losing battle of pretending he’s not very quickly developing some serious feelings for this man. 

Even still, his history and the mistakes Castiel’s made in the past rear their ugly heads and warn him to be careful, to slow down, to guard his heart and everything else in his life. _It is different though,_ he thinks, at night when his phone screen has gone dark and stopped buzzing with Dean’s replies. He’s not an employee of Dean’s at the Bunker, he’s a contractor—in charge of his own fate and finances, not bound by any non-compete clauses or dependent on Dean for a weekly paycheck like he was at _Sainted Angels_. If he doesn't bring in his own clients, he won’t have any. If one of the Winchesters refers someone to him or he picks up the rare walk-in, the Bunker takes a cut, but that’s nothing unusual and yet again, it’s something Castiel can control. 

The flexible schedule might even allow for him to return to school, to possibly take some classes that would theoretically lead to his ability to teach art to others. Perhaps teenagers, or maybe to guest lecture at the University. His skills are niche, but they’re solid, and his magical talents are some of the best out there. It’s always been a passion of Castiel’s to spread his knowledge where he can, to support the next generation of artists, especially those with the talent and drive to mix art and magic. When he brought that idea up to Dean a few nights ago, he was all for it, so excited and enthusiastic in a way that had Castiel relieved there were screens in between them—he had to dab at his eyes over the emotion that sprang up unexpectedly. Balthazar had never shown such interest, such _care_ for what made _Castiel_ happy, for what he wanted out of life. Everything is different with Dean. Everything.

Even the way Castiel’s fingers tingle as they twist together, the way his heart pounds a little bit faster and his mouth goes dry at the expectation, the _anticipation_ of seeing Dean. Unwittingly, a smile pops up on Castiel’s face, he can’t help it, he’s just so… _happy._ Halfway up the three steps that lead to the library, Castiel stops short, struck dumb by that simple realization. _Happy._ He’s happy. It’s been a long time since that was a word he’d use to describe the way he felt about himself or his life, but here he is and it’s… easy. Obvious. He’s _happy,_ and a not small part of that is because of _Dean._

While Castiel is standing there having a moment inside his own head, Dean steps out from one of the alcoves on “his” side of the room, wiping down his favorite tattooing machine with a clean, white towel. He looks up when he sees Castiel in the doorway, a slow grin spreading across his face, lighting up his eyes and crinkling them at the corners. 

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says almost breathlessly, his entire demeanor slightly more overt in his interest than he perhaps would have preferred, but his thoughts caught him off guard and now Dean is _here_ and—Castiel smiles ruefully and thinks he’s probably blushing with the way his cheeks heat. “It’s very nice to see you.” 

It’s possible that Dean may not notice that at all, though, since his soft smile turns to fairly obvious lust very quickly as his gaze drifts over Castiel’s outfit. “Hey, Cas,” he replies distractedly. Speaking of blushing, when he realizes how obvious he’s being, Dean’s cheeks turn pink all the way down to his neck as he clears his throat and spins on his heel to set the tattoo gun down again. 

When he turns back, he nods at Castiel’s arm. “Do the thing,” he says eagerly, unambiguously requesting another demonstration of his declared favorite of Castiel’s tattoos. They’d spent nearly a half-hour last time doing it over and over, and Castiel had truly thought the novelty would have worn off by now. Apparently not.

Looking down at the image of a thin silver blade inked carefully on the sensitive skin of his inner forearm, Castiel grins up at Dean before flicking his wrist in a practiced motion. As he does, the weapon—which is no ordinary knife but a tri-edged sword with a long, rounded hilt—slips smoothly down his arm and into his hand. A second wave of his arm has Castiel drawing back and releasing the blade like he’s throwing it at a target. He’s close enough to Dean that he sends it in his direction, the sharp end appearing to embed itself in Dean’s chest before disappearing.

“Awesome,” Dean declares in amazement, staring down at his own chest and then back at Castiel like he’s never seen a simple illusion before. “You’re awesome.” 

“The magic that brings your inked version of Baby to life is far more complex and subtle,” Castiel retorts, deflecting the praise easily but sidling up to Dean all the same. He pauses momentarily as Dean turns into him so that they’re chest-to-chest, unsure what the proper greeting is for someone you’ve been nonstop flirting with for nearly seven days in a row but haven’t been up close and personal with in the same time frame. 

_You’re overthinking it, Castiel,_ he chastises himself, taking in Dean’s warm green eyes and opting to move on instinct since it hasn’t failed him thus far, not where Dean is concerned.

Stepping into Dean’s space and winding arms around his shoulders at first feels like a mistake, because Dean stiffens beneath his touch, but then, almost immediately, he relaxes. Dean’s hands sweep broad strokes up Castiel’s back, one coming to rest against his shoulder blade and the other on his lower spine. Dean feels _good_ in his arms; so solid and welcoming and they fit together in a way that has Castiel wanting to say, _the hell with it_ to his tattoo and drag Dean instead to one of the Bunker’s bedrooms, preferably Dean’s own.

The things they could do together, the way it would _feel_ to let himself drown in Dean, to press their bodies together and just _be_ for one night. Or—Castiel’s feeling reckless—however many nights they choose. It should shake Castiel to his core, the depth of his feelings, the strength of his desire to be with Dean, in whatever way Dean will have him. It doesn’t, though. Not with Dean releasing him only to look so fondly down the two-inch difference between them. Not the way Dean’s hand lingers on his bicep, trailing softly down the length of his arm, making the hairs stand up in interest. Not the way Dean seems just as reluctant to step away as he feels. No, there’s nothing to fear, here. They’re both in this together, that much is very, very clear. 

“You’re looking good,” Dean says as he moves towards his drawing table, picking up some ink bottles left behind there and relocating them over to the workstation he has set up for Castiel. Motioning him over, Dean bustles around and tries to look busy, and if Castiel didn’t know better he’d say that it seems like Dean might actually be nervous, too. “New clothes? You know, ‘cause you’re usually so… buttoned up.” 

“Sometimes I look like this,” Castiel says, suppressed grin tugging at the sides of his lips as he makes his way to Dean’s chair. “I used to dress this way often, before.” 

“Oh,” Dean replies lamely, squeezing an empty bottle in his hand until the cap pops off, startling him and making him fumble. “Well, it—it suits you. You look good.” 

“You said that,” Castiel teases, though he’s entirely pleased with Dean’s reaction, happily baiting him by pulling said good-looking t-shirt off and draping it over the back of the reclined-forward chair. Despite the fact that he _had_ to have been expecting some disrobing, Dean’s mouth drops open a little and his eyes glaze over while Castiel smirks and straddles the chair. Wrapping his arms around the leather like it’s an old friend, he settles in like there’s nowhere else in the world he could possibly be more comfortable. 

“Jesus Christ,” Dean mumbles from somewhere behind him, though he manages not to drop anything else as he takes his place at Castiel’s side. His cheek on the headrest, Castiel struggles not to shiver as Dean’s fingertips graze his skin, carefully applying the ink transfer template that will guide his hands as he fixes Castiel’s wings. “Tell me about the rest of your tattoos,” Dean says, a hand resting softly on Castiel’s flank as he gets his bearings, gun checked and poised for action. “You ready?” 

“Of course, Dean,” Castiel replies, answering both questions at once as the machine hums to life and he braces for the first stroke. He’s quiet for a minute or so, allowing his body to adjust to the irritating sensation of the needle dragging over his skin before he sucks in a deep breath, ready to try and hold a conversation. “The blade you know about,” he starts, glancing down at his forearm and flicking it down into his hand anyway, just out of habit. Instead of throwing it, though, Castiel just flips it, catching the pointed end before waving it away, back onto his skin. 

“There’s my grace, obviously,” he continues, the fact that he’s positioned neck tattoo-side up making it easy for Dean to get a visual on his explanation. With a thought, the blue-white light is swirling and shifting, a miniature version of the glow that appears when he spreads his wings spilling from the inked “cut” in his neck. 

“Love that one,” Dean comments off-handedly. “What, it’s supposed to be like your power source or something?”

“Something like that,” Castiel responds noncommittally. “Perhaps a symbol of my intrinsic talents, and how so many people have tried to manipulate me over them, whether to make me think that I was less for having them or to use them for their own gain, either way.”

From his place at Castiel’s back, Dean grunts. “That’s pretty damn deep, Cas,” he remarks, needle buzzing busily away. “Not for nothing, but that whole storyline doesn’t _not_ fit with your wings. The whole flying-through-Hell, coming out the other side damaged but alive and better for what you learned business?” When Castiel’s silent, Dean pushes on. “You give any more thought to letting me turn this into a transformative tat? No pressure, just a question.” 

In truth, Castiel’s tired of feeling exhausted by his wings and this whole situation. He’s ready to move forward and is increasingly certain that Dean is the one who can get him there, in more ways than one. He hums and shifts a little, unsticking his chest from the leather of the chair. “I trust you,” he says. “Whatever you think is best.”

Dean’s foot must tap the pedal powering his tattoo pen because the noise ceases abruptly. “Wait, seriously?” 

“Seriously,” Castiel replies with a small nod that doesn’t require him to lift his head. “Continue, please.” He settles down again and remains quiet, waiting for Dean to pick up where he left off before continuing to speak. 

“The obscure lettering on my ribs is Enochian. It’s actually a healing charm built into my skin. I’m not sure that it would do much if I were, say, stabbed straight through the heart, but for stubbed toes and papercuts, it’s fairly effective.” 

“I gotta get me one of those,” Dean replies enthusiastically, his free hand bracing against Castiel’s shoulder, and it’s hard to remember that Dean is in professional mode right now. His warmth and his touch feel good, needles aside.

“I’d be happy to replicate it for you. Balthazar taught me the charm and he’s very protective of the formula. Naturally, I’d like to make it one of my staple offerings at an accessible price point going forward.” Dean snorts in appreciation and Castiel smiles. “Really, the only other pieces I have are the flowers on my stomach and ribs,” he says, a hand coming up to touch his side reflexively at the place where a massive assortment of colorful flowers and vines curl around his abdomen and up his flank. 

If it weren’t for the wings, Castiel probably would have extended the design much farther onto his back, but as it turns out, skin is a limited commodity. It’s not a complicated piece, and there’s nothing particularly magical about it aside from the fact that the plants rustle as if under a gentle breeze and the bees hop peacefully from flower to flower. Strange as it may be, Castiel always enjoys watching them, finds the lowkey enchantment interminably soothing. 

“I would like to get a guinea pig at some point. I just can’t figure out where to place it, or if I’d be put off by him appearing randomly on my neck the way Baby does to you.” 

Caught off guard, Dean laughs out loud, pausing in his tattooing until he can get ahold of himself. He pats Castiel’s flank and drops his forehead to a patch of untouched skin, hot breath ghosting across Castiel’s ribs and distracting him thoroughly from whatever train of thought he had going previously. But Dean doesn’t seem to notice, sitting up and resuming his work without further teasing of Castiel’s senses. “Damn, Cas,” he says, a hint of admiration in his voice that Castiel enjoys immensely. “You are something else, sweetheart.” 

The casual term of endearment has Castiel tingling all over again, but he forces himself to settle and let Dean do his job. The next hour or so in the salon is quiet, Castiel actually dozing off in the chair to the familiar, soothing sounds of Dean’s pen in his ear. The discomfort from the linework is minimal, whether because Castiel’s used to it or Dean is that talented with his light touch and careful hands, it amounts to the same thing. No one needs or asks for a break and so Dean is able to accomplish everything he set out to do in this session without difficulty. 

Castiel wakes up to Dean rubbing balm onto the skin of his shoulders and back gently, soothingly, perhaps a little more thoroughly than necessary, even. After yawning and blinking himself fully alert, Castiel waits until Dean’s secured plastic wrap over his ink before he sits up straight and turns, just enough so that one of his knees is pressed flush against Dean’s thigh. “Hello, Dean,” he says sleepily.

“Heya, Cas,” Dean replies brightly, a sweet smile on his face like he’s pleased to see Castiel all over again. “You did great, we kicked linework’s ass. Miles to go, but it’s a good start.” Gathering up the remains of his trash, Dean snaps his nitrile gloves off and into the garbage can before putting his arms over his head and stretching luxuriously, allowing himself a very indulgent yawn. 

“I should let you get to bed,” Castiel says regretfully, shaking out his own stiff muscles and pulling his t-shirt gingerly over Dean’s work. When Dean nods and smiles ruefully, Castiel’s heart sinks a little, somewhat disappointed that Dean didn’t argue or ask for him to stay. It’s silly that he’s so reluctant to leave. After all, he’s been in Dean’s company—had Dean’s hands _all over him_ —for hours tonight and he’ll be back in the morning to start work, where Dean will also be, since it’s his place of employment too. 

It helps, though, that Dean appears to feel the same, following Castiel out through the empty War Room, all the way up the stairs, and lingering in the doorway while Castiel tries to think of reasons not to walk away. It _is_ possible that Dean just wants to ensure the door is locked behind him, but Castiel’s not actually delusional enough to buy into the musings of his own insecurities. 

Leaning against the open door with his head pressed back and his bottom lip pulled in between his teeth, a lazy exhaustion pervades Dean’s whole being that makes Castiel want to gather him up and tuck him into bed (beside him). He resists, stepping backward up the exterior steps and raising a hand instead. “Goodnight, Dean,” he tells him.

“Goodnight, Cas,” Dean replies, his smile drowsy but still flirty as Castiel forces himself to turn and walk away. “Text me when you get home,” Dean calls out after him. “Drive safe.”

“Thank you, mother,” Castiel replies over his shoulder, but he’s smiling too. 

Later, as he climbs into bed, the four unread messages that await him are no surprise, but they are a comfort. As Castiel settles back into the pillows to type his answers, he’s happy, but he also starts wondering if perhaps _he_ should have made the first move, back in the doorway with Dean. It’s not as if Dean doesn’t know how emotionally draining this whole process has been for him. The reluctance he carries, the fear he harbors of making another mistake like Balthazar. 

Suddenly horrified, Castiel wonders if _Dean_ thinks Castiel views him as the same sort of risk, the same sort of potential mistake, and nothing more. Dean’s words on the screen are the same flirtatious sweetness that Castiel’s become accustomed to from the man, but the way he never even tries to test the waters in person… 

_That’s it._ Castiel decides right then and there that he needs to be more careful with Dean’s heart, needs to ensure that he doesn’t end up trampling it in his misguided attempts to guard his own. After work tomorrow, he’ll say something. He’ll… extend an olive branch, see if Dean’s receptive. A drink together, perhaps, nothing serious. Over the past few weeks, Dean has been nothing but supportive and kind to Castiel, handling him with care and doing everything possible to empower and help him to move on. It’s an uncomfortable realization that perhaps Castiel hasn’t been doing as much as he could be to return the favor, to lift Dean up in the same sort of way. Self-awareness is a journey, Castiel supposes. Now that he knows, all he can do is try to be better. Dean deserves that. Long after they’ve said their (second) goodnights, Castiel lays under his blankets with the darkened phone in his hands, staring at the ceiling and wondering _just_ how he’s managed to fall so far, so fast. And how he’s so sure— _already—_ that he wouldn’t change a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit of an interlude before things pick up between the boys ;)  
> What do y'all think about their developing relationship? Did it take you as long as Cas to figure out why Dean hasn't made a move? He's a good, respectful boy.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Again?” Sam says loudly as he enters the room, but even with his head down Castiel can tell that he’s teasing. “When you two are done touching each other, let’s have a celebratory first-day drink.”_
> 
> _Dean snorts. “This is work-related touching,” he fires back. “Don’t be jealous just because I’m better at and more dedicated to my job than you are.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all. I know this is a trying time for a lot of us. I have kids home from school and a spouse who is working around the clock for the county dept of emergency services, so things are tough here, too and I'm with you all in spirit. I'm trying my best to still get updates out quickly because I know some of us are feeling really isolated and sad. I hope this brings some cheer to you all. 
> 
> Also, Tanya, aka [Defiantchic](https://www.tumblr.com/search/defiantchic), won the little challenge in chapter 3 and she appears in this one!! Omg. As an additional surprise, [Followyourenergy](https://www.tumblr.com/search/followyourenergy) came in SUCH a close second, I stuck her in the next chapter, because I couldn't resist, lol. So stick around if you want to see one of your fave fic authors get her first tattoo. 😂 And Zaffre, who is the reason this story exists, makes an appearance as well. ;)

It’s pouring rain the next morning when Castiel makes the drive from his apartment in the city back to the Bunker. The frontage road is borderline washed out and not for the first time, Castiel wonders how economical being housed this far out of the way can possibly be for the Winchesters. While the brothers don’t seem remotely bothered, Castiel worries about his own income and his ability to attract clients without Balthazar’s name behind his work. While Dean seems to be under the impression _his_ name will bring clout to _Soul Survivor_ and the Bunker, Castiel’s not nearly so sure. But perhaps that’s on him, and he just needs to believe in himself a little more. Without question, Dean makes him want to.

As he squints against the buckets coming down over his windshield, wide rivulets of water running so fast that his wipers can barely clear a path before more is obscuring the glass, Castiel grumbles, praying vehemently that he doesn’t get a wheel stuck in the mud. His old truck is reliable, but just that—old. He also wonders whether he should call his appointments for the day and warn them about the traveling conditions, ultimately pulling over (stopping in the middle of the sodden gravel road) to do exactly that. 

To his relief, no one seems to mind, each of them reassuring Castiel easily that they’ll be out regardless. In fact, most of them seem _thrilled_ to be headed to the Bunker, barely-paved access roads or not. Castiel hadn’t realized how much of a reputation the place really has, but his conversations with his clients go a long way to calming his fears about income and reassuring him that joining up with the Winchesters is the right thing to do. 

As he pulls into the puddle-studded and extremely muddy lot in the shadow of the old power plant, Castiel suddenly and intensely regrets not taking Dean up on his offer to grant him access to the tunnel that leads to the Bunker’s indoor garage. It’s just before nine in the morning so the front door should be open, but to get there Castiel will have to slosh through some pretty nasty terrain. To top things off, as he pats around the seat next to him (and then behind him, and then underneath both with increasing panic), Castiel realizes that he’s left his umbrella at home, because of course he did. 

Great. That’s just what he needs, to show up for his first day at his new job looking like a drowned rat, and then to spend the entire _rest_ of that day in half-dry clothing and wet fucking socks. Call it a Pavlovian response, but wet socks have been firmly imprinted in Castiel’s mind as an omen of bad tidings, a thing to be avoided at all costs, a minor inconvenience that, in his mind, is one of the worst things that can happen to a person. 

It doesn’t take long before Castiel (still dry, incidentally, since he hasn’t left the safety of his truck) has worked this nothing issue into a frenzy in his own mind. So much so that he’s considering turning and driving home instead of going inside at all, because he’s convinced himself that between the rain and the impending sock situation, the world is trying to tell him something. The cup of coffee with _“Dean”_ written on the side, sitting innocuously beside his own in the carrier, does nothing to ease that building fear.

It’s just too familiar. It’s too much. 

And if it weren’t for the soft _ding_ of his phone in his trenchcoat pocket, Castiel would have let all of that be true. Would have put his key back in the ignition, turned his truck around, and left Dean and the Bunker and the Winchesters behind for good, because anxiety is _not_ logical, it is _not_ rational, it does _not_ care that Castiel _knows_ without question that sweet Dean Winchester is _not Balthazar._

Castiel—the _real_ Castiel, not the anxiety-ridden mess who’s entirely too fixated on socks—does know that, though. And when he lifts his phone and sees Dean’s name on the screen with the following message, his heart jumps for joy and all thoughts of fleeing get stamped out as easily as a match in the rain by his all-encompassing desire to simply be in Dean’s presence again. 

_Mornin’ sweetheart. Get your ass in here before breakfast gets cold._

Smiling stupidly down at his screen, Castiel takes a deep breath and lets it out right as another message comes in.

_Ding._

_Look up,_ is all this one says, so Castiel does, his eyes peering through the water-distorted glass of his truck’s passenger side window to see Dean standing in the arch of the Bunker’s entrance, holding the door open. 

Paradoxically, Castiel’s mind is still telling him to run while his heart demands he dive in head-first and his body—well, seeing Dean in soft sweatpants, a t-shirt, and a robe first thing in the morning has his body on a completely different wavelength from both his brain _and_ heart. The interruption from Dean breaks his anxiety’s hold over him, though, and Castiel once again starts feeling more excited than nervous. Even as he pockets his phone, lifts the coffee carrier, and opens the truck’s door to a relentless downpour, his spirits can’t be dampened. 

That is, until he takes four wide steps to round the truck and slips in the mud, stumbling to try and regain his footing before ultimately going down hard and face-first. Both he and the coffees go flying, the slickness of the grass under his feet eliminating any chance Castiel might have had to stop the horrifying sequence of events he feels like he’s witnessing from outside of his own body. Thankfully, the concrete steps leading down to the Bunker are there to break his fall, and Castiel goes tumbling down them too, whacking his forehead against the edge of one as he rolls. 

Flat on his back in a mix of mud, coffee, and dirty water accumulating on the stone at the bottom, Castiel blinks dazedly up at the grey sky. His head throbs and spins as rain continues pelting insistently at all of his exposed skin, cold and sharp and a stark reminder that Castiel is just not the kind of man things ever go right for. “Wonderful,” he mutters, a drop hitting him squarely in the eye. “Just wonderful.”

“Holy shit, Cas!” Dean’s voice comes from somewhere to his left, because of course Dean was here to witness his monumental failure at simply being alive. Before he can protest the babying, Dean’s arm is sliding underneath Castiel’s shoulders, encouraging him up with a firm hand sliding down to grasp at his ribs. The motion grates over the newly-tattooed skin of his back, but compared to the pain in his head, it’s just a minor nuisance. “C’mon, Fred Astaire, let’s get you inside.” 

Stumbling over the threshold together, Dean slams the Bunker’s door shut behind them while Castiel leans against the wall and tries to catch his breath. Water sluices steadily from his hair, down his trenchcoat, and into puddles on the iron walkway. As Dean appears in front of him, shaking the rain from his own head with a goofy smile on his face, Castiel feels something warm and thicker than water trickling down over his right eyebrow, quickly obscuring his vision. The smile slides off of Dean’s face as he steps forward, hand reaching out in concern. 

“Do I need to put you in a bubble, or what?” Dean mutters softly, pulling off first his robe and then his t-shirt without hesitation, balling the latter up before pressing it against what is obviously a significant cut on Castiel’s forehead. Despite the pain in his head, the blood in his eye, and the fact that he’s humiliated himself (again) in front of Dean, Castiel can’t help but be swayed by Dean’s presence in front of him. There are mere inches, just the tiniest chasm of space between their faces and Dean doesn’t show any indication that he’s uncomfortable with that. In fact, as he holds pressure on the wound and Castiel finds the courage to meet his eyes, all he can find in Dean’s expression is fond warmth. If he wasn’t soaking wet, muddy, and quickly becoming chilled to the bone, Castiel doubts he’d be able to stop his body from reacting to the proximity of Dean’s muscled, naked chest. As it is, he just shivers. 

Taking notice of his increasing discomfort, Dean lifts the crumpled t-shirt up enough to check the status of the injury underneath. “It’s not as bad as it looked with all that blood on your face,” he declares, picking up Castiel’s hand and plucking free the drink carrier he’s still clutching. “Probably don’t need this,” he teases, dropping it into a trash can next to the railing before relocating Castiel’s hand to hold pressure on his own head.

“Right, of course,” Castiel murmurs, embarrassed but clutching Dean’s shirt tightly all the same. 

“Let’s go get you cleaned up,” Dean continues, stopping at the top of the stairs to pull off his wet socks and to make sure Castiel is steady enough to walk by himself. He seems totally unfazed by this whole thing, no matter how much Castiel’s cheeks burn and he tries to sink into his jacket, hoping to disappear forever.

Sam is nowhere to be seen, probably in the library setting up if he has an early client, and Castiel is grateful for that—this is awful enough. The path Dean carves through the Bunker is familiar; they’re headed for Dean’s room which is down and past the kitchen. As they pass, some tempting smells waft out; bacon and eggs, fresh coffee, and Castiel feels immensely guilty. 

“I apologize for ruining your breakfast,” he says, catching Dean’s forearm reflexively without thinking too much about the urge that leads him to do so. 

But Dean just smiles back at him over his shoulder. “No worries, buddy. Food can wait. Anyway, I made all that stuff for you. Sort of a, ‘welcome to the team,’ first-day celebration. We’ll get you cleaned up and then see what needs reheating.” 

“This is mortifying,” Castiel admits as they arrive at Dean’s door and a still-shirtless Dean holds it open for him, like he’s not some sort of casual Adonis, like it’s not taking every ounce of Castiel’s willpower to not openly gawk at him. In true Dean fashion, that continues as Dean tosses his robe and rifles through his bureau, pulling out a fresh t-shirt and jeans, which he changes into without pause. 

It’s not as if Castiel hasn’t seen the man down to his underwear before, and both of them are professionals who see various body parts on all sort of people every day of the week, but _still._ The ease with which Dean moves around him, the comfort he has with his own body and whoever sees it—Castiel _wishes_ he could be more like that. When Dean catches him looking, he grins and throws a bundle of clean clothes his way, which Castiel catches clumsily. 

“First of all,” Dean says, now fully-dressed as he shrugs on a flannel. “You tripped. It’s no big deal, shit happens. It’s not some kind of prophetic sign that the universe hates you, alright?” Narrowing his eyes, Castiel wonders if Dean is actually this intuitive or if he is just that transparent. “Second, this place is the most easygoing work environment you’re ever going to find, so let’s just get that out of the way. Me and Sam love to work, but we also live here, so it’s home first and when you’re here, you’re home too. Cool?” Without waiting for a reply, Dean points towards a sink mounted to the wall and the mirror above it before skating out the door and leaving Castiel alone. As it closes behind him, he calls out, “Come out to the kitchen when you’re done and I’ll fix up that head of yours.” 

Still dripping wet and clutching the pile of dry clothes (and the bloody t-shirt), Castiel glances around Dean’s room, unable to stop himself from thinking that this is not how he’d imagined returning here. Moving towards the sink, he sets the clothes down on Dean’s desk and strips. The wound on his forehead is still oozing when he checks it in the mirror, but nothing that appears serious. Somewhat awkwardly, Castiel manages to stick his head under the running faucet and rinse the mud from the back of his hair and neck. He winds up swiping a towel from the back of Dean’s door to dry off, crossing his fingers that Dean won’t mind. 

The clothes Dean left for him fit well enough, if a touch long in the leg for the jeans. It sets a funny feeling loose in Castiel’s gut to consider that he and Dean are virtually the same size, the idea of Dean wearing _his_ clothes something that interests Castiel more than it probably should at this point. Clad in his new t-shirt and flannel and feeling like a Winchester-lite, Castiel makes a brief but fruitless attempt at taming his completely destroyed hair before throwing his hands up and opting to lean into the wild look. 

Not that he’s testing the waters or anything, but while Castiel is unfixably socially awkward, he’s not stupid or naive. “Sex hair” has always been a thing he’s had going for him, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious to see Dean’s reaction to it today. Gathering up his dirty clothes and coat (and the purloined towel), Castiel exits Dean’s room and makes his way towards the kitchen. After everything, he opts to leave his shoes where they are next to Dean’s desk to dry out. While Dean is probably right about not everything being a sign from the universe, the whole wet-sock thing still hits way too close to home and Castiel’s not about tempting the fates. 

On dry, socked feet, his approach gives Dean very little warning, and Castiel finds himself hovering in the doorway while Dean faces away from him, singing along to the radio and dancing, quite literally, as if no one is watching. A grin spreads across Castiel’s face as he watches Dean spin on one foot, holding a pan of eggs out to one side as he screeches the high note of the song playing into his spatula. The laugh that escapes from his throat catches Dean’s attention and his head jerks in Castiel’s direction, cheeks flushing as he opens his mouth, probably to defend himself.

Except, he doesn’t. No actual words make it out of Dean’s mouth, just a semi-pained little squeak that accompanies the way his eyes go glassy and unfocused as they roam over Castiel’s whole body. Well, that certainly answers Castiel’s question from earlier, in a way that has _him_ blushing and ducking his head, like he was the one playing pop star in the middle of the kitchen. As quickly as it came though, Dean’s interlude dissolves and his normal persona is back, bustling over to help himself to Castiel’s clothes in his hands and to nudge him into taking a seat at the table. 

“Hang tight,” he says, juggling the laundry while simultaneously spooning some eggs and bacon onto a plate in front of Castiel. Dean winks before disappearing out the door, leaving Castiel alone, save for the eggs. Without a good reason to refrain, Castiel shrugs and tucks in, only realizing after he’s halfway through the plate and the steaming cup of coffee Dean must have poured before he came in, that he’s starving. By the time Dean reappears, Castiel’s plate is clean and he’s checking his phone, worried that his first appointment should be showing up within the next half-hour and there’s still an open wound on his face. 

“Clothes are in the washer,” Dean announces, sitting down next to Castiel and flinging open the first-aid kit in his hands. Once again, Castiel’s breath stutters with Dean only a few inches away, casually leaning into his space, so close that his coffee breath ghosts across Castiel’s cheek. Dean grasps his chin, gently tilting it towards the side before wetting a piece of gauze with some hydrogen peroxide and dabbing away. The corner of his mouth quirks up when Castiel flinches.

“Cold,” Castiel says, by way of explanation. 

“Mmhmm,” Dean agrees amiably, though he doesn’t stop what he’s doing. “There. Just needs a coupla butterfly bandages and you’ll be good as new. Probably gonna have a hell of a bruise there, though.” He’s already unwrapping said bandages as he speaks, and when Castiel doesn’t protest, proceeds to apply them to his face. Castiel, meanwhile, tries hard to focus on the sting of his cut and the ache when Dean presses his fingers onto the skin next to it, so as to avoid acknowledging the way his body is insisting that leaning in and catching Dean’s lips with his own is a _very_ good idea. The gentle warmth of Dean’s hands, the spicy scent of his cologne, not to mention the _soft_ expression on Dean’s own face—all of those things are making the notion extremely hard to ignore.

When Dean’s finished, he lets his fingers trail down Castiel’s cheek, holds eye contact in a way that makes Castiel forget anything else in the world exists. Until—

“Ahem.” The sound of Sam clearing his throat in the doorway has them both pulling back suddenly, jumping to their feet and making excuses while Sam waves them off.

“Yea, yea,” Sam says dismissively with a roll of his eyes that makes Castiel wonder how often he’s walked in on Dean doing something like this. The thought doesn’t sit well in his stomach, but everyone has a history. If Dean simply wanted a quick roll in the hay, he certainly could have made a move by now, and that’s enough for Castiel to put those particular worries aside. “Cas, your ten o’clock is here. She knows you might be a few minutes, I’ve got her set up with some tea in the War Room. I gotta get back, I’ve got a client in the chair. Dean—you good to show Cas his station?” Sam’s tone is pointed and Dean looks appropriately chastised, nodding sharply and shifting his stance under his brother’s disapproving gaze. 

After Sam disappears back into the depths of the Bunker, Dean looks over at him sheepishly. “You ready?” he asks, jerking his thumb in the direction of the library. “C’mon, let’s get you set up.” 

Relievedly, the rest of the day goes much better than the beginning of it. Despite the slow start, both Winchesters and Castiel have their hands full with customers from the minute they step out of the kitchen until the Bunker closes its business doors around seven in the evening. 

Cas’ first appointment takes up a good chunk of the day in and of itself; four hours of coloring and shading almost _sixty_ individual green leaves until his hand cramps up, but the end result is worth it. Despite Castiel’s initial worries, the blending of his old life and new one progresses seamlessly. Tanya, the girl whose back he’s working on, is a regular and this is a second session for the second tattoo he’s done for her. The first he’d inked back when he worked at Balthazar’s and the linework for this one had been done in his own living room. Not the most professional of circumstances, that’s for sure, and Castiel’s more than thankful to have loyal clients like Tanya who didn’t hold his lack of a real studio against him. 

Still, she seems excited to be at the Bunker today, already chattering on about coming back for her next tattoo as soon as this one heals. Not that Castiel can blame her, the Bunker speaks for itself and it’s unsurprising that people want to be here. As far as the process goes, Tanya is exactly the kind of client every tattoo artist hopes for—no wiggling or squirming under the needle; friendly but not so talkative that Castiel wants to rip his own head off by the time he’s finished. While he’s working, Castiel notices the Wonder Woman ring on her left hand and they spend the next hour and a half talking about subversive feminism and dismantling the patriarchy. It’s a good way to spend a big chunk of the day.

In the end, Tanya stands in front of the Winchesters’ double-mirror set-up at the far end of the library while Castiel admires his carefully constructed final answer to her initial, extremely vague request from just off to the side. If he remembers correctly, it was something along the lines of, “some kind of jungle thing.” The lack of detail had nearly given him an ulcer as he sketched and erased and sketched again, but ultimately, he’d come to adore the design. As Tanya holds her shirt in front of her chest, sweeping her long blonde hair over her shoulder and out of the way, she makes eye contact with herself in the mirror, blue eyes curious and hardly nervous at all. Castiel has to admire that; this is not a girl who has confidence or trust issues, that’s for sure.

In the mirror behind her, the leaves rustle, shaking realistically all up and down the tear-drop shape that runs from the bottom of her spine all the way up to her neck. The multi-tonal green leaves start out densely packed at the bottom of the tattoo and loosen up as they twist their way up her spine, and when they sway on her skin, it provides a stunning, shimmering effect, like light poking through a dense canopy and alighting on the foliage below. In the middle of the rounded bottom of the overall design, a tiger’s face appears, eyes narrowed and facial muscles tense, as if it’s getting ready to pounce. When Tanya smiles, the tiger pushes its head through the ring of leaves and roars, glinting eyes and sharp teeth making the movement look _so_ realistic, Castiel almost forgets this tattoo included a new charm he’d invented himself. 

Until the entire Bunker goes still.

“Holy shit, Cas, you did it!” Tanya exclaims, whirling around to throw an arm around his neck in excitement, and Castiel thinks she probably forgot she isn’t actually wearing a shirt. 

Dean appears in his periphery, and Sam just behind him, both of them looking stunned and confused. Dean’s finger is out, pointing accusingly in Tanya’s direction. “Did that thing just roar? Like, actually make _noise?”_

“Oh,” Castiel says a little sheepishly, snapping the stretchy nitrile of his glove against his skin. “I apologize, I should have discussed it with you before I tried out a new enchantment. It won’t happen again.” 

But Dean just blinks back at him in disbelief, exchanging a glance with Sam (who looks incredibly excited) before raising his hands and stepping forward to clap Castiel on the shoulder. “Dude,” he says, clearly still astonished. “It _better_ happen again! This is exactly the kind of creativity I was hoping you’d bring to the Bunker. Never, ever apologize for pulling off something that badass. Man, we are so goddamn lucky to have you here.” He shakes his finger before turning his attention back to Tanya. “Let’s see it again,” he demands with a grin.

When the excitement over Castiel’s new skillset has died down and Tanya has been wrapped up and sent on her way, they order pizza. When it comes, the three artists scarf it down while hovering over Dean’s table, a late lunch or early dinner, Castiel isn’t even sure. Thanks to the lack of natural light filtering down into the underground space, it’s nearly impossible to gauge the passing of time. Surprisingly, Castiel finds himself uncaring about that, enjoying both his work and the easygoing atmosphere the Bunker provides, happy to just go with the flow and immerse himself in his art.

The third table in the library, the one closest to the telescope in the alcove, becomes Castiel’s, and he’s quick to make it his own. At Balthazar’s, the artists shared all the work areas and counter space for sketching and drawing was a limited commodity. To be able to stretch out, to keep multiple works-in-progress going at the same time _and_ have space left over to meet with clients? It’s basically heavenly. The private alcoves sectioned off by the bookshelves are perfect as well, in Castiel’s opinion. They provide the right amount of privacy and accessibility, and if necessary, can easily be blocked off completely with a portable curtain. 

By the time the last client is heading out the door, Castiel is feeling _really_ good about his decision to come work here. His muscles are sore from the long day of work, but in a good way, and he’s nearly ready to completely let go of the idea that the events of the morning were a sign of anything except that Castiel should never try to run in the rain. Above the War Room, the Bunker’s heavy door swings closed, Sam’s echoing laugh to his client’s goodbye muted by the distance. 

Inside the library, Castiel’s headed for the atrium, having just finished putting away his gear and cleaning his spaces. “Hey,” Dean calls out and when Castiel turns, he sees him waving a tube of Bag Balm. “Lift your shirt up, let me slap some of this on you. Meant to do it this morning but we got a little sidetracked.” Now that it’s been mentioned, the skin on Castiel’s back is feeling a bit raw and tight and he certainly should know better than to let a healing tat go this long without moisturizing. Considering that, he doesn’t protest, shrugging Dean’s flannel off and pulling his borrowed t-shirt up over his head. 

Without checking for Dean’s reaction, Castiel folds his arms against the nearest bookcase and waits, shivering a little from the draft floating in from outside, or perhaps it has nothing to do with the temperature at all. Dean’s hands find his shoulder blades and caress gently, rubbing the balm in circles over his irritated skin. Castiel’s healing charm is doing its part to mitigate the inflammation, but the treatment still feels wonderful. And when Dean’s fingers dig into the meat of his muscles slightly, pressing the day’s tension out in careful, long strokes, Castiel can’t help but sigh and drop his head. 

_I could get used to this,_ he thinks. 

“Again?” Sam says loudly as he enters the room, but even with his head down Castiel can tell that he’s teasing. “When you two are done touching each other, let’s have a celebratory first-day drink.”

Dean snorts. “This is work-related touching,” he fires back. “Don’t be jealous just because I’m better at and more dedicated to my job than you are.” 

“Okay, Dean,” Sam replies easily as Castiel stifles a smile against the skin of his arms. “We definitely all believe that you’re only rubbing Cas down for _work._ You got me. Hey, didn’t you ink Rufus again a couple of days ago? You gonna make a house call and oil him up, too?” One of Dean’s hands disappears suddenly and behind him, Castiel registers the sound of something being thrown. It’s swiftly followed by the sound of Sam dodging whatever it is while running away and laughing. 

“Yea, you better run,” Dean mutters under his breath. 

Feeling like his ink is probably sufficiently moisturized, Castiel straightens up and turns around, only to come face-to-face with Dean, who was apparently standing _very_ close as he applied the balm. “Hello, Dean,” he blurts out, unable to think particularly clearly with Dean’s blushing face _right_ there and no good reason for either of them to still be in each other’s space. No good reason… except for one. 

“Hey,” Dean replies, breathy and quiet, his green eyes darting from Castiel’s blues down to his lips and back, licking his own unconsciously in the process. “Cas, I—” Dean cuts himself off as Castiel steps closer, swallowing heavily as his eyes go just a little bit glassy, the way they were in the kitchen early this morning. “‘M not trying to make things weird. Or pressure you,” he continues and Castiel nods, tilting his head just slightly to the side and his chin up until he and Dean are less than an inch apart.

“That’s good,” he replies with a small smile. “I’m glad to hear it.” Castiel pauses and Dean doesn’t move away, but he doesn’t close the gap between them, either. “I’m a mess, Dean. I’m—” He shakes his head, just slightly. “But I’m happier today than I have been in a very long time. I’m happy here with you.” 

Dean sucks in a breath, one of his hands gingerly finding its way to Castiel’s waist, the other reaching up to touch his jaw. “Could be somethin’ good here, Cas,” he murmurs, their bodies swaying together until it feels like every part of them is already kissing, except for their lips. 

“I think so too,” Castiel agrees, his voice barely above a whisper, not that it needs to be with Dean so close. 

“Been dying to do this since the night we met,” Dean adds, before leaning down to eliminate the last bit of empty space between them and touch his lips to Castiel’s. It’s soft and sweet and barely there, at first. Even still, Castiel’s eyes flutter closed, a soft sigh escaping as Dean curls a hand around the back of his head and opens his mouth just a bit, just enough to turn the kiss into something very, _very_ real. 

Dean hums as he pulls back slightly, keeping their foreheads still pressed together. “Damn,” he says, eyes still closed. “No regrets here.” 

Leaning forward again, Castiel steals another chaste kiss before untangling himself from Dean’s arms and retrieving his t-shirt to pull it over his head. When he turns back, Dean is looking at him like he hung the moon and Castiel feels wholly undeserving. What has he even _done_ for Dean to deserve such attention, such affection? That thought bothers him so much that he ends up blurting it out and Dean’s expression turns bewildered as Castiel slides a hand over his face in frustration, mostly at himself.

“Cas,” Dean says in disbelief. “People shouldn’t want you around because of what you can _do_ for them. You’re not like, a tool to me. I like you because you’re cool, you’re fun to talk to. We’ve got a shit ton in common. You need more? Uh, let’s see.” Dean holds up a hand and starts ticking off fingers. “You’re a bangin’ artist, you’ve got an ass that won’t quit, and you’re a hell of a lot better to look at across the dinner table than Sam and his Rapunzel hair.” 

While Castiel fidgets with his hands uncertainly, Dean steps forward and cups his jaw, forces Castiel to look him in the eye. “Stop trying to figure out what you owe me,” Dean says insistently. “Just hold my hand. Enjoy the ride.” He pauses and Castiel takes a deep breath before nodding. He _wants_ to, _God,_ he wants to, wants _this._ “Gonna kiss you now,” Dean murmurs and Castiel grabs hold of his shoulder, pulls him in and kisses back, relief and want flooding his veins as their mouths come together, several soft presses in succession where Dean draws away in between, giving Castiel every opportunity to back out if he wants to. 

When he doesn’t, Dean threads an arm around his waist, yanks him close and uses the hand on his jaw to nudge it open so he can sweep his tongue inside. Castiel moans, wraps an arm around Dean’s neck and holds him close, lets Dean stumble them towards his work table, knocking chairs over in the process as he tries to find something solid for them to lean on. It’s wonderful, being in Dean’s arms like this, and Castiel could do this _forever,_ but something urges him to stop. 

He wants Dean, but he wants to _keep_ Dean, and a little voice in his head is telling Castiel that he should _slow down_ if that’s the case. Not because of Dean, but because of _him._ “Wait, wait,” Castiel gasps, exhaling against Dean’s kiss-swollen lips and having to summon every ounce of willpower he has not to dive back in. “I want…” he trails off but uses his finger to motion in between them, nodding and hoping beyond hope that Dean gets the point because words aren’t coming easily just now. “I do, I really do. I just need…”

“You want to take things slow,” Dean offers, his arm still wrapped around Castiel’s waist, his half-hard cock brushing Castiel’s thigh through his pants. He doesn’t look upset, on the contrary, he smiles and brushes a thumb over Castiel’s cheekbone. “‘Course, sweetheart. We’ve got all the time in the world. Hey, you still want to get that drink?”

It’s as simple as that. Castiel sets up a boundary and Dean accepts it, no questions asked. There’s no fallout, no secret harboring of resentments that crops up later when Castiel’s least expecting it. Out in the War Room, Sam has the TV on and three glasses of whiskey poured, though he seems genuinely surprised (but pleased) when the two of them make an appearance. They pass the rest of the evening drinking and laughing, swapping stories and jokes, and when they’re all several whiskeys deep, Dean sits on Castiel’s lap and plays with his hair and it’s all just… perfect. 

No one so much as entertains the idea that Castiel’s driving home tonight; after all, that’s what the Bunker’s spare rooms are for. Warm and dizzy, Dean walks Castiel to the door of his borrowed room with their hands intertwined and stops just outside like a perfect gentleman. Except—and this is not the booze talking, Castiel’s… _ninety_ percent sure of that—Castiel’s starting to wonder if there’s a middle ground between _space_ and _sex,_ and whether he can trust himself to navigate it safely. He turns to Dean, placing a palm on his chest when he leans in to say goodnight, and decides to find out. 

“Would it be strange if I wanted to share your bed tonight? Just…” Castiel pauses and squints, tilts his head to the side and regards Dean thoughtfully. “I want to suggest cuddling, but I’m wondering if it will insult your manly sensibilities.” 

Dean looks surprised and then scoffs. “ _Real_ men aren’t afraid to be the little spoon, Cas,” he replies with an eyebrow wiggle that makes Castiel laugh. “Would it be _strange?_ Hell, no. It would be fuckin’ awesome,” Dean adds, reaching out his hand to once again take Castiel’s own.

“My boots are in your room, anyway,” Castiel reminds him. “It’s probably just as well.” 

“Probably just as—” Dean stops short in the middle of the hallway and throws his head back, laughing, tossing Castiel that irresistible, dimpled grin when he does. “Whatever you want, sunshine,” he says, patting Castiel’s hand with his free one. 

***

In the sanctuary that is Dean’s room, it’s surprisingly easy for Castiel to strip down to boxers and slide into bed next to a man who has somehow, in just a few week’s time, become the molten, exigent center of his universe. As wholly insane as that may be, at least in Castiel’s tipsy state, it’s easily recognizable as truth. 

Pressed up against his chest, Dean is warm and welcoming. He is all the things Castiel has always wanted in a friend, in a _partner,_ in a lover. Dean’s lips are soft but sure as they trail over Castiel’s stubbled jaw, his hands interested but respectful where they grip Castiel’s hip, where they slide across his back. Dean— _Dean_ is the reason Castiel left Balthazar to begin with, because he _had_ to find out if he was out there, if this, what he and Dean share together, this _pull_ that has Castiel unable to resist pressing his lips against Dean’s over and over and over—was out there somewhere, waiting for him. 

They make out like that for what feels like an endless amount of hours or days, or perhaps it’s only seconds, because no time could be enough time to be in Dean’s arms. The way Dean kisses is tender and thoughtful, but still hot enough to get Castiel’s motor running in a way he hasn’t felt in _years,_ perhaps ever. It’s like Dean kisses with his whole body and Castiel is _very_ into that, molding himself to Dean’s curves, sliding their legs together, letting Dean cup his head and press a thumb against his chin to get him to open—it’s nearly magical, what sparks between them. And that’s saying nothing of what it feels like to lick into Dean’s mouth himself, to feel Dean’s tongue moving against his own, of the way Dean’s mouth on his makes Castiel feel _alive_ and worthy, or maybe just _good._ It’s _nice_ to just feel _good._

After a while, the deep, intense kisses slow to something easier, more gentle. Simple presses of lips traded back and forth, neither one of them seemingly wanting to be the one who ends things first, who falls asleep on the other. 

Dean slides a hand over Castiel’s jaw, thumb tracing over his cheekbone as his muted green eyes blink back at Castiel tiredly in the dark. “Can I tell you something?” Dean asks hoarsely, and Castiel nods, leaning forward to steal another sweet kiss which Dean accepts with a delicious little hum. He licks his lips as Castiel pulls away, flashing an unbelievably soft version of his usual charming grin that makes affection swell inexorably in Castiel’s chest. 

“Anything,” he replies fondly, fingertips trailing down over Dean’s neck, his amulet, across Dean’s chest and coming to rest wrapped lightly around his ribs. Truly, Castiel’s beginning to feel like he could never get enough of Dean, like he can’t _get_ close enough to him now, can’t stop touching him. “Tell me.” 

Dean shifts, shimmying onto his back to make himself more comfortable, which dislodges Castiel’s hand on his torso. Seamlessly, he reaches down and threads their hands together beneath the sheets instead, and Castiel finds himself leaning in, propping his chin on Dean’s shoulder, pressing a kiss to the smooth skin he finds there. 

“Juliet wasn’t a tattoo I ever wanted,” Dean admits into the darkness. He pulls in a breath that Castiel can feel as his chest expands, hear as he blows it out with measured intention. His pause goes on long enough that Castiel feels the need to make it clear that he’s listening, that he’s indelibly invested. He squeezes Dean’s hand.

“Not actually one of your favorite characters?” He shoots for light and teasing, but Dean doesn’t laugh, just shakes his head before turning it so that he can nose in Castiel’s hair. The gesture is intimate and grounding and somewhat unexpected, but Castiel will take it. Dean has brought him so much comfort, the _least_ he can do is return the favor in any small way that Dean will accept it.

“Book three wasn’t written when I got this tattoo,” Dean explains. “Juliet, at least, the Juliet you know, didn’t exist.” His lips graze Castiel’s temple before he relaxes back against the pillow again. “Thing is, there was this guy.” Castiel hums in understanding and that, at least, makes Dean laugh. “Yea, you got it, sweetheart,” he says, his hand releasing Castiel’s to snake underneath and around his shoulders and pull him close. Castiel goes easily, settling into his side and breathing in Dean’s spicy-musk scent quite happily. “Always comes back to a guy or a girl, doesn’t it? Anyway, Sam never liked him, warned me off of hanging out with him from the jump, but back then, I dunno. I was going through something, I guess, and he was good for blowing off steam. There’s a related story here about the tat on my forearm and a drunken night where I inked it on myself, but we’ll have to circle back, not the point.” 

Dean coughs into the elbow not hooked around Castiel’s neck before clearing his throat. “Crowley was the guy’s name. I was in a real rut with my writing and it was frustrating the hell out of me, so I was dealing with it… uh, let’s just say badly.” Dean sniffs and Castiel snuggles closer, placing a hand in the middle of his chest in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture. From the way Dean’s arm tightens around him, it seems to be.

“I won’t judge you,” Castiel reminds him gently when the silence drags on a bit too long again.

“I know,” Dean replies quickly, a little too quickly, and then he’s sighing and nodding and pressing another kiss to the top of Castiel’s head. “Right. So, I was dealing with it by going out and getting drunk, high, you get the idea. Whatever Crowley had on tap, I was in. I was out of control, acting like an idiot, starting fights, running all over the country with Crowley and his boys. Letting him do all kinds of degrading shit to me whenever he felt like it. The worst part is, I liked a lot of that degrading shit a lot more than I should have.” When Dean pauses this time, Castiel’s ready, cupping the side of his face to draw him in and kiss him sweetly. 

_I’m not judging you,_ Castiel does his best to pour into his touch and it’s a relief when Dean sighs against him, shuddering a little. 

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he says softly, before continuing. “Sam showed up where we were partying a few times, tried to throw down and drag me away, didn’t work out so hot for him. Eventually, though, I saw the light, wanted out and told Crowley so. I guess he and Bal had some similar ideas about tattoos and ownership, but Crowley wasn’t half as fucking subtle. Looking back, I think maybe he thought he was doing me a favor, I don’t know.” 

Dean groans and drags a hand over his face, shaking his head behind it, clearly embarrassed. This time, Castiel stays quiet, giving him space to process. “Crowley had these big fuckin’ dogs he brought everywhere with him. Giant, slobbery things that looked like hell on wheels between the teeth and the paws the size of a toddler’s head, but they were actually big dopey babies. He treated them like shit, though. Not abusive, exactly. Didn’t hit ‘em or make ‘em fight, always kept ‘em fed and never left them out in the cold but he made it really clear that they were just _dogs._ You know what I mean? Not something to be appreciated or loved, just a dog. Never sat exactly right with me, but so long as he wasn’t being cruel...” Dean shrugs. “Anyway, the dogs are a great example of how Crowley viewed everything and everyone in his orbit. Possessions, assets. Things that prop up his image, make him look however he wanted to look at the moment. Stupid, but I never realized until it was too late that all that included me, too.”

“To make a long story short, Crowley got me wasted and tattooed Juliet, his favorite dog on my thigh. To remind me of my place, that _I_ was a dog, that I belonged to him or something equally stupid, as if I was ever going to buy into that. Obviously, he didn’t really know me at all because it did the exact opposite. I punched him in his smarmy face, stole his car, and ditched it in a lake. Called the Humane Society and said whatever I had to until they went and took possession of his dogs. They’re now running free and happy at our friends Jody and Donna’s farm upstate, so I guess it all worked out.” 

“Oh, Dean,” Castiel murmurs, his grip around Dean’s waist tightening. “That’s horrific, I’m so sorry you went through that.” He doesn’t have to elaborate, it would be redundant. Dean’s telling this story because he already knows that Castiel understands and empathizes, and Castiel appreciates the trust, the way Dean is letting him in on what is clearly a very painful, humiliating memory. For the first time since Balthazar did what he did, Castiel finds himself the _tiniest_ bit glad about it, if only because it allows for him to relate, to understand Dean’s pain and fury in the most visceral way. 

Next to him, Dean rolls over and faces Castiel again, who wonders vaguely how someone could be so beautiful, even in the hazy dark. “Thing is though, yea, it pissed me off. Yea, I moped around about it for a good long while. But then I did something about it. All that anger I wished I could direct towards Crowley, I poured it into my books. Into Jensen and Juliet, until the story unfolded into what it is now. A redemptive arc for Juliet, where everybody sees that _Mark—_ that character is based on Crowley, in case you hadn’t guessed—is the real villain, no matter what Juliet looks like or how she acts before someone gives a shit about her. She gets to be the unsung hero and Jensen gets a friend.”

“And you get to not hate what you’re wearing on your own skin,” Castiel adds, understanding. 

“Bonus,” Dean agrees, shuffling closer and wrapping an arm around Castiel’s waist again. “Sam tweaked her into a Hellhound, but really, Juliet is still pretty much how Crowley drew her. Except now, she’s something I look down at and feel good about seeing. But _I_ did that, Cas. Not Sam, with his tattoo machine and his ink. And definitely not Crowley, though having me scarred and stuck with Juliet is something he wanted.” He slides a hand over Castiel’s jaw and into his hair, tipping his head forward just a little so that their lips can brush together once, twice. When they separate this time, Dean lingers just out of reach.

“I’m getting there,” Castiel says softly. “This is helping.” 

“The kissing? ‘Cause I can definitely do—”

“Dean,” Castiel chastises, but he’s smiling, ducking his face into Dean’s warm neck to hide it. “Thank you.” 

As he nuzzles into Dean’s side, Dean’s fingers begin combing through his hair, stroking softly and urging Castiel’s tired eyes to drift shut, to send him off to sleep on a blissful cloud, heaven on earth in Dean’s arms. “No problem, sweetheart. Night,” Dean murmurs, but Castiel’s already too far gone to reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be excellent to each other.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Slowly but surely._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: We earn our explicit rating this time :)
> 
> Also, the wonderful Mary aka [Followyourenergy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/followyourenergy/pseuds/followyourenergy) appears in this chapter as does the incomparable [Zaffre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaffre/pseuds/zaffre), who you should really thank if you enjoy this story, as it would NOT exist without their very kind and generous bid for FandomTrumpsHate. <3

The next month and change is a lot of the same, not that Castiel’s complaining. It’s just that his official return to work as an artist and the surprising influx of customers his joining the Winchesters at the Bunker creates has them all running a little ragged. Even still, the Winchesters play as hard as they work, and most nights end with some sort of party, whether it’s just the three of them, some leftover clients, or a handful of friends. 

As such, Castiel finds himself spending the night at the Bunker with increasing frequency. Depending on what’s been going on that day and who’s over in the evening, that doesn’t always translate to sleeping with Dean in his bed in Room 11, though that certainly happens often enough. And while Dean’s never made him feel anything but welcome, Castiel doesn’t want to overstep or crowd the man, so he happily accepts Sam’s offer to make Room 15 into his own space; a place where he can leave some toiletries and a few changes of clothes, books, whatever might be useful on those nights where it’s more convenient to stay. And if that makes it easier for Castiel to ignore his growing desire to do just that, the lonely incompleteness he feels during the times he does make it home and goes to sleep alone in his empty apartment, well, that’s no one’s business but his own.

Just like Castiel himself, the tattoo Dean is fixing is coming along too, slowly but surely. Not that Castiel would know, but Dean assures him that it’s exactly where it’s supposed to be, and Castiel’s fully given up the reins on directing the process. To Dean’s surprise and delight, that also includes his resistance to adding transformative properties to the final product. After Dean’s disclosure about Juliet and how close his current tattoo is to the original he didn’t want, it wasn’t nearly as hard for Castiel to decide that the man was trustworthy with that particular decision-making process (and execution). 

Regardless, they only have one session left, a long one that they’ve both agreed should wait for a Saturday when neither of them has other clients. Whatever the outcome, it’s sure to be emotional and at the very least, Castiel’s not fond of the idea of sharing the initial reveal with anyone beyond Dean. And that’s perfectly fine with Dean, so that’s how it will go.

The other thing Castiel’s unsure of, and intent on creating space to find out, is what will happen after that. _After_ his tattoo is done, _after_ his original excuse to be in the Bunker at all comes to an end. It’s not as if he thinks Dean or Sam has any interest in ending their business relationship—that’s highly unlikely, considering what success it’s brought all of them. Castiel’s new and innovative charms have the customers lining up at the door and the Bunker provides a stable base of operations for Castiel to practice in. There’s also the fact that, outside of their excellent working relationship, all three of them get along well as friends. So that’s not in question either. 

But Dean—Dean is the wildcard. 

They haven’t talked about it. They _don’t_ talk about it, any of it. From the way Dean corners Castiel in the Bunker’s hallway, on the way back from using the bathroom in between clients, slamming him up against the tile wall and kissing him like it’s _air._ A hot hand around Castiel’s neck, a tongue down his throat, a knee jammed in between his thighs. Hard and passionate, taking what they need from each other without reservation. Or how, at the end of a long day, Castiel will press up against Dean’s back, push his face into the firm muscles beneath Dean’s t-shirt to try and relieve the exhaustion behind his eyes. The way Dean will sigh happily as he holds onto the arms wrapped around his waist. 

There’s also the way that they gravitate to each other’s sides, even in crowds, even when they should be doing other things, speaking to other people. How Castiel finds it so easy to read Dean’s moods; when to give him space versus when to pin him down and heap on the affection he desperately craves but won’t ask for. And all of the nights they spend wrapped up in each other’s arms, whether it’s Castiel crawling into Dean’s bed after failing to fall asleep by himself, or them tumbling into it together, no thought of being apart considered. 

They don’t talk about it.

From an outside perspective, Castiel supposes it’s probably obvious that they’re together, but the fact remains that they _haven’t discussed it._ According to Sam, Dean used to frequent the bars in town and would bring home various random people more nights than not, a habit he’s apparently completely abandoned since Castiel started coming around. Perhaps that says more than anything else, since it’s not just variety in partners Dean’s given up willingly—it’s sex altogether.

Not that Castiel ever asked him to, or that he’s opposed to _sex_ (with Dean) in any way. On the contrary—he can’t remember a time in his life that he’s ever been _so_ interested. And yet, neither of them has made a move to escalate their physical relationship to the next level. Which leaves Castiel to wonder, is Dean not interested, or is he simply being respectful? They’ve had more than one conversation about his own hesitance to mix business with pleasure (even though they’re pretty deep into the hole to deny that’s what they’re doing, at this point) because of Balthazar. It seems fairly reasonable to admit that Dean is probably waiting for _him_ to make the next move. 

He wants to. _God,_ does he want to. As the days go by and the temptation, the _desire_ to show Dean how much he wants and needs him ratchets up notch after notch, Castiel only becomes more sure. And yet, he hesitates when they’re in the moment. 

Now, though, the time has come. When his tattoo is finished, he’s going to tell Dean he wants to make things official between them. That he’s not afraid—or, well, he _is_ afraid but he’s not going to let that fear control him any longer. 

It’s Friday, and Castiel’s last ink session with Dean is scheduled for tomorrow. As monumental events go, this one feels pretty anticlimactic. The whole week has been nothing but normal, mundane, and Dean’s been swamped with work and meetings with his publishers for his next book release, including flying to L.A. to hammer out some details. As a result, Castiel hasn’t seen him much at all. He even slept in his own apartment the night before, since his only appointment is slated for late afternoon today and without Dean to give him an excuse, Castiel really couldn’t justify why he was hanging around the Bunker. 

Not that he thinks Dean or Sam would mind, it’s just not actually his home to hang out in like that. _Maybe someday,_ he catches himself wistfully thinking, and the strength of his desire, how much he _wants_ that dream to come true, takes Castiel by surprise. 

As the Bunker’s front door slams shut behind him, echoing throughout the cavernous space, Castiel hops down the iron stairs with a spring in his step. With any luck, Dean will be back from his trip by now and Castiel will get to at least check-in with him before tomorrow. If he’s being honest, though, he’s hoping for more. With his nerves on edge, he could do with some unwinding, some _actual_ Netflix and chill (not the euphemism) curled up on Dean’s bed, maybe watching one of those cowboy movies with the guns and tuberculosis Dean likes so much. 

Castiel spots his client vegging out on one of the couches in the War Room, giving her a wave before holding up a finger, _just a minute._ His station should still be set up from how he left it yesterday, but it never hurts to be sure. As Castiel climbs the steps up to the library, he hears buzzing, which is curious because no other customers were on the books for this time as of closing yesterday evening.

Peering around the doorway, Castiel catches sight of Dean in the first alcove, putting the finishing touches on a painful-looking rib and shoulder blade tattoo. His client is a thin woman of average height with long, wavy brunette hair that’s braided to one side, presumably so that it won’t get in the way. She’s got her eyes squeezed shut and she’s clutching the tattoo chair like it’s a fireman carrying her out from a burning building, so Castiel can guess pretty easily about how well this session went. 

When Dean doesn’t notice him immediately, Castiel creeps closer, taking in the way most of the tattoo is already healed—Dean must have been doing it in stages, probably for the uncomfortable client’s comfort. It’s a _big_ tattoo, too, the basis of which is a staircase made out of books that starts just below her armpit and curves up around her back. A _lot_ of linework, a lot of shading, and a character piece—there’s a little girl climbing the stairs, and her features are quite detailed, delicate even. She wears a blue dress and is following a blue butterfly, almost as if the butterfly is her guide. Surrounding the whole thing are various flower blooms that add color and a whimsical feel to the piece. It’s elegant and intricate, and Castiel can’t help but stare, appreciating not for the first time how truly talented Dean is. 

“Alright, Mary,” Dean says gently as he withdraws his needle from her skin and wipes it down with a paper towel. He does a double-take when he finally notices Castiel standing there, his features softening and a smile spreading across his face. “How you feeling?” He’s still talking to Mary, but his eyes are for Castiel only, and he struggles not to blush under the attention. 

Mary nods as she stands up and stretches her legs, shaking them out. “Better, now,” she admits. “Got a little rough at the end, there. It’s done?” 

“It’s done,” Dean confirms, shooting her a wink and gesturing over towards the mirror set-up in the back of the room. With single-minded focus, Mary goes and the two of them follow, Dean pressing a kiss to Castiel’s cheek while keeping his still-gloved hands to himself as he moves through the room. “Missed you,” he says quietly, before turning his attention completely back to his client. “Alright, you ready?” 

With a nod, Mary exhales visibly and stares at her tattoo in the mirror. As Castiel watches, the tiny blue butterfly begins to flutter, flapping its wings until it lifts off from Mary’s skin and _grows._ Once in the air, the butterfly becomes larger until it’s the size of a real one, flitting from flower to flower, all of which suddenly look a lot more life-like. After a once around the blooms surrounding the little girl on the stairs, the butterfly takes off and perches on Mary’s shoulder, fluttering its wings delicately before dissolving into thin air in an ethereal shower of blue sparks. 

When it’s gone, Castiel can’t help but look to Mary’s face for her reaction, but she’s covering it, shaking her head just slightly while sniffling and clearly trying to reel herself back in. Dean appears at her side with Kleenex and takes her in his arms, hugging her tight until she’s managed to compose herself again. 

“I’m sorry,” she says wheezily, pulling back from Dean’s grasp and blowing her nose in the tissue he offers. “It’s just that it’s _exactly_ what I saw in my dream. A beautiful tribute for my Dad, thank you. Thank you, Dean.” 

Suddenly feeling as if he’s intruding on a private moment, Castiel compliments Mary briefly and then escapes away to retrieve his waiting client, leaving Dean to wrap things up with her on his own. He checks the books and pulls the sketch he’d made previously, _ah, yes._ This is a tattoo he’s been looking forward to. It’s just a simple bee climbing a graphic black and white honeycomb, but it’s huge—nearly a half-sleeve in size. All the line work has been finished previously, so it’s just color and details today. The perfect distraction and outlet for his anxiety about his own tattoo finishing tomorrow. 

“Zaf?” he calls out, and the girl on the couch looks up from her phone with a grin. Castiel’s a fan of Zaf, she’s taller than he is and has pink and blue hair and a bunch of other really well-done tattoos. It could be an uncomfortable scenario, since Zaf is another client who followed him from Bal’s, but she’s never brought it up, so Castiel supposes there’s no reason to think she will. Or that she cares about any of that at all, really. It’s likely that most people don’t, that any worrying he does about his clients’ perceptions of him is all in his own head. 

This isn’t Zaf’s first rodeo—she knows what to do and what to expect, so that allows Castiel to slide right into his routines without any muss or fuss. As he expected, the soothing hum of the tattoo machine and the familiarity of putting needle to skin takes him to another world, washes away any lingering worry he might have had about the ever-looming _what comes next._ Dean brings him back to reality just slightly when he pulls up a chair and watches Castiel work, but ultimately, he keeps things light and they end up simply cementing plans for watching that movie later before Dean squeezes his shoulder and disappears off into the Bunker. 

Left to his own devices, Castiel throws himself into his work but finds it more difficult than usual to fully escape. His thoughts are a little wild; split between Dean, his own ink session tomorrow, and what he’s really supposed to be focused on: the living tapestry in front of his face. He manages, though, and Zaf’s piece comes out looking pretty spectacular, especially the way the bee’s wings spark to life, lifting the bee up off of her skin and zipping away on command. Castiel wraps his satisfied client up in plastic and settles her bill down at the reception desk in the War Room, and then drums his fingers as the door shuts and he’s alone again. 

Before setting off into the Bunker, Castiel glances at his phone but there are no messages, so he shoves it back in his pocket. He wanders out of the War Room and past the kitchen—empty, save for some telltale signs of recent cooking activity, but not a glimpse of Dean or Sam anywhere. In fact, Castiel’s not even sure that Sam is home since he hasn’t seen him at all today. The next natural stop is Dean’s room, since it’s on the way to the room he’s come to think of as his, and it’s a surprising relief when Castiel sees that the door is open and Dean’s lights are on. 

A hand on the cool metal of the doorframe, Castiel peers inside, blinking in abject surprise at the sight that meets his eyes. Dean’s room is… transformed, at least from how Castiel’s used to seeing it. The space, while always tidy and homey (unless Dean is in a bad mood and hoarding pizza like the apocalypse is nigh), is a place that Dean clearly regards as serving a function. He is not normally the kind of person who nests, who uses any particular space itself to bring him comfort. Beds are for sleeping, bedrooms are for changing in and storing one’s personal items, or achieving alone time when the common spaces are occupied. 

Castiel’s teased Dean about this before, how his decor is sparse for an artist, utilitarian even, and Dean defensively explained that his upbringing was a lot more military than it was creative and that old habits die hard. It doesn’t _actually_ bother Castiel, though. Dean’s space is functional for him and that’s all that matters. 

Today, though, Castiel has to flick his gaze up to the numbers on the door to be sure that he’s in the right room. Both bedside lamps have gauzy scarves draped over them, casting the room in a hazy, subdued light that’s both gentle and romantic. The bed itself is sans its usual scratchy, army green knitted blanket, the mattress actually dwarfed by the large number of pillows and colorful, soft-looking blankets piled on top. At the foot of the bed is Dean’s laptop, opened and presumably queued up to a movie, and to the right, there’s a cooler full of beers sitting on the floor in the shadow of a tray table boasting two (huge) freshly cooked cheeseburgers and a big pile of fries.

“I spelled the food so it’d stay warm and the ice in the cooler so it wouldn’t melt,” Dean pipes up almost nervously from where he’s lurking over by his dresser. That makes Castiel blink; Dean doesn’t usually waste magical energy on common things like that, says he doesn’t believe in it. If the display alone weren’t enough to clue Castiel in that Dean is trying to do something here, that certainly would have. “I know you’re nervous about tomorrow. Feeling antsy and probably all up in your head about it,” Dean continues, stepping forward but remaining over by the bed, clearly letting Castiel control what happens next with no expectations. “Just wanted to do something nice for you.” 

The fact that Dean’s been away for several days, has heaps of his own work to contend with, that he came back to the Bunker only hours earlier and spent most of that time tattooing a client and then doing all of _this_ is not lost on Castiel. As he surveys the comforting, serene space Dean has created _for him_ , Castiel very suddenly and very clearly knows exactly what it is he wants. 

Stepping forward, he presses his fingertips to the top of Dean’s laptop screen and pushes it down until the lid clicks closed before picking the laptop up and placing it out of harm’s way on the desk. Turning back to Dean, Castiel is unsurprised to see him looking confused. “You don’t like it?” Dean asks softly, expression held carefully blank but terribly transparent for anyone who knows him well enough to look. 

Smiling, Castiel steps forward and wraps confident arms around Dean’s waist, yanking him in close and kissing him with a determined fury that Dean allows but doesn’t quite match. When their lips part with a soft _smack,_ Dean’s eyebrows are knitted together, his eyes darting around Castiel’s face, trying desperately to figure him out. 

“I adore it.” Castiel course-corrects quickly. “This was… unbelievably thoughtful, Dean, and just when I thought I couldn’t adore you more. Seeing you do this for me…” He shakes his head. “It just made me realize that I know exactly how I want to take my mind off of things. I know exactly what I want, and I don’t need to see the outcome of this tattoo for that to be perfectly clear.” He pauses, strokes a hand down the side of Dean’s jaw and Dean leans into it, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “Dean,” Castiel says, a little breathlessly. “I’m so sorry if I stacked your worth against the outcome of your work. That wasn’t fair, and to be clear, it wasn’t something I was consciously attempting to do. I fear, however, my actions may have led us to the same effect, regardless of intent.” 

“Cas,” Dean says quietly, still nuzzling his hand. “If you’re trying to say that you want me to bang the anxiety about tomorrow out of you, you don’t gotta make a whole speech about it. And you don’t need to worry ‘bout me and my feelings,” he huffs. 

“I _want_ to worry about you and your feelings,” Castiel shoots back, tangling fingers in Dean’s shirt as he tries to duck away, embarrassed. “No,” he growls, placing two fingers at the bolt of Dean’s jaw and applying enough pressure that Dean winces and relents, making eye contact. “I know that you hate this, talking. We don’t need to make a big deal of it and you don’t need to reply to me. What you’ve done here—” Castiel sweeps his hand wide to indicate the room. “—it speaks for itself. I hear you. But I also _see_ you, and I can tell that for whatever reason, you don’t feel worthy. Surely, I’ve contributed to that by keeping you at arm’s length or not being crystal clear about my feelings, and that stops now. Yes, I’m ready, and I want to sleep with you. But that isn’t all I want. If you’ll have me, I want all of you, too. Will you have me, Dean?”

His hand’s drifted down Dean’s chest to grip the fabric of his shirt, keeping them only inches apart and Dean unable to look away in any meaningful fashion. His freckled cheeks are red and he’s huffing and doing his best to look anywhere but at Castiel—he clearly hates this—but he takes a breath and then meets Castiel’s gaze head-on. “You don’t gotta get all chick-flick moment on me,” he mutters. “I’m, you know, yours. Been yours since you reeled me in with that ridiculous sob story and those puppy-dog-lookin’ baby blues. I want you, want you like crazy, sweetheart. I was just waitin’ to make sure you wanted me that way too.” 

“I’m sorry I made you wait,” Castiel replies before diving in, kissing Dean hard and sure, trying to let him know that there is _no_ hesitation, no reluctance or uncertainty on his part. Relieved, Dean kisses back wholeheartedly this time, grabbing both sides of Castiel’s head and claiming his mouth in a way that makes Castiel melt in his arms. 

“Clothes,” he murmurs against Castiel’s lips, unwilling to really pull away even as they fumble at each other’s shirts and belts, the process of undressing at least three times more difficult for it. The extra struggle is worth it though, as far as Castiel is concerned, to feel the way Dean _wants_ him, the way he can’t get enough of him, doesn’t want to stop kissing his mouth or putting his hands all over Castiel’s skin. 

It’s been a long time for Castiel, over a year since he’s been with someone and much, much longer than that since he really _felt_ anything when he was. While Balthazar never pressured him for physical intimacy, Castiel was always indifferent towards sex with him, never initiating, only even really considering the idea when Bal brought it up. As a result, whenever they _did_ do it, the whole event turned somewhat rote and mechanical in his mind. Those feelings persisted to the point where even if Castiel did manage to get off, it wasn’t anything more satisfying than catering to any other biological need. 

That whole issue and those feelings are a big part of what led him to cut things off with Bal to begin with—while he’s certainly no expert, Castiel’s smart enough to know that sex shouldn’t be a chore. Shouldn’t be on the same level of pleasure and enjoyment as emptying one’s bladder or washing one’s hair or eating something out of necessity, not because it tastes good or you’re particularly hungry for it, but because it’s been X amount of hours and you’re concerned that you _should._

With Dean, Castiel feels _hungry._ The way Dean touches him, the way he holds him close has his brain firing on every cylinder; lighting up pathways and activating neurons he didn’t even know he had. When Dean throws Castiel down onto his bed and climbs up over him, Castiel’s whole body tingles in anticipation. His skin _sings_ with the knowledge that Dean’s body will be pressed against it at any moment, wants it, _craves_ it. Even as his hand shakes, as he grips Dean’s naked hip, as he guides Dean down on top of him, Castiel can’t dream of wanting something more than this, more than the way he wants Dean right now. 

Tipping his chin up, Castiel lets his tongue lead, licking into Dean’s mouth, keeping their kisses thorough, deep. Every point on his body where it touches Dean’s is hot, on fire with need and desire and the pure, driven excitement of not knowing what will come next. 

When Dean settles between his legs, Castiel makes the easy assumption that Dean wants to fuck him, that he’s lucky enough to _have_ Dean, to have this, of course, that’s the way it would go. It’s not that Castiel doesn’t want to bottom—he’s perfectly fine with it, but _perfectly fine_ is all things ever were with Bal, and Bal never cared to let him top. The thought stings a little when he lets it creep into his thoughts, puts a slight damper on his enthusiasm even though it has _nothing_ to do with Dean, even though he’s happy and turned on and thinks he’d truly enjoy bottoming for Dean, would perhaps even love it. 

But those intrusive musings must cause him to stiffen up a little under Dean’s touch and Dean notices, pulling back a little, which makes Castiel ashamed. Ducking his head, he redirects his energy towards sucking kisses into Dean’s chest, to reaching down to drag a teasing loose fist over his erection, to fondle his balls. Dean _is_ easily distracted, as it turns out, and he hums happily, tightening his grip on Castiel’s hair and rocking his hips into the touch. And then he’s leaning away, over a stack of blankets to knock open and fumble inside his bedside table drawer, returning to Castiel with a bottle of lube in his hand and a condom in his teeth. 

Reflexively, Castiel moves to lean back and spread his legs, but Dean stops him, pressing the tube into his hand. “Thought you might want this, since you’re messing around down there,” Dean says cheekily, flashing Castiel a wink as he settles back into his lap, this time with one knee on either side of his hips, instead of in between. When Castiel just gapes, Dean falters, moving to take the lube back. “I mean, if you don’t want to, that’s cool. I don’t mind topping or, you know, neither. Plenty of other stuff we can do.” Dean rambles wildly until Castiel gets a grip on his shock and reaches up to cover Dean’s mouth with his hand.

“Dean, shut up,” he says, all sorts of thoughts flying around his head. “I want—hmm.” Castiel breaks off, feeling around with his free hand until he’s able to recover the lube from where it’s fallen into the blankets and holding it up. “I just thought—you know what? It doesn’t matter. I would very much like to fuck you.” 

Dean’s grin is wide enough that Castiel doesn’t need to remove his hand to see it, the way it extends to the crinkles at the sides of Dean’s eyes, the brightness in his beautiful green irises. “Cool,” he says breathily, sinking further into Castiel’s lap and pressing him down into the mattress once again with hot kisses to his mouth. “Cool,” he mumbles, this time into Castiel’s mouth as Castiel’s arms come up around him and hold him down. 

Working fingers into Dean and then later sliding inside him is like nothing Castiel can ever remember experiencing before. It’s not technical or tedious, which is how he remembers (prep especially) being for himself. No, it’s just like everything else with Dean— _sparking,_ intoxicating, messy and real. From the way Dean kisses harder when Castiel pushes a first finger in, to the way he eventually writhes in his lap, shoving back on three and begging for something more, Castiel can barely wrap his mind around it. All he knows is, he’s never been so hard, so aroused, so _into_ a sexual act as he is this, with _Dean_.

When it’s time, a jolt of need and possessive desire has Castiel rolling them over so that he’s on top. After kissing Dean fiercely, he starts pushing inside—slowly, smoothly, feeling every sensation and all of the wet heat that envelops him as Dean’s head tilts back against the pillows, his eyes close, and his mouth drops open. It’s fascinating to see Dean this way, so vulnerable and open, uninhibited and unafraid. 

Licking his lips and swallowing, Dean nods dazedly, urges him on, grabs his ass and tells him, “c’mon, Cas, give it to me,” with a heel digging into the back of Castiel’s thigh. Castiel gets Dean’s hands up above his head as he thrusts and laces their fingers together, fucks Dean hard while looking into his eyes and _fuck,_ using the word “magic” seems cliché but _God, it is, it is magic._

And Castiel loves him. 

Loves the way Dean looks up at him with awe and lust in his eyes, the way his lips graze Castiel’s collarbone so sweetly, the way he _gives and gives_ and always seems to know _exactly_ what Castiel needs without him having to say so. He loves being with Dean like this, inside of him and all around him, loves the way Dean makes him feel, now and all of the time. He just _loves_ Dean, in a way that feels beautiful and impossible but equally undeniable. 

It’s apt timing to figure this out because Dean, wordsmith he is not, comes shaking and yelling and clutching at Castiel’s back and his hair, nails digging into skin so hard they’ll surely leave marks. “ _Love_ you, Cas,” Dean gasps into his ear, not as he’s climaxing but as he’s _coming down_ and while the meaning of that is _not lost—_ Castiel is helpless to be dragged through the undertow and out to sea as he comes inside Dean, too. 

When his vision clears, Castiel pulls out carefully and flops onto his back next to Dean, the mattress barely moving because it’s one of those fancy memory foam ones. One of Dean’s few indulgences, and he’s entirely proud of it. Castiel takes exactly fifteen seconds to catch his breath before he’s rolling onto his side and dragging Dean over too, catching sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes in his gaze and forcing them to focus.

“I love you, too,” he says simply, and Dean beams. 

It is just that simple. 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is still well and hanging in there in their isolation chambers, lol.
> 
> There's only one chapter left (or possible one chapter and an epilogue, haven't decided how to split it yet but they'll both be posted at once). Next time, we get some Dean POV for REASONS, a surprise visitor, and Cas' big tattoo reveal. gasp! I hope the wait for the lovin' was worth it. :-P 
> 
> Love you all, keep on keeping on.


	7. Dean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't think I'd let Castiel off the hook *that* easily, did you?!
> 
> POV switch for reasons that will become clear, Cas will be back in the epilogue.
> 
> This chapter now contains AMAZING, beautiful art by the extraordinary [Gio](https://www.instagram.com/gioguiarts/)!! Please go to check out her insta, [twitter](https://twitter.com/Gio_Gui), [tumblr](https://sketching-fox.tumblr.com/), and give her all the love!!!

As nervous as Cas is, Dean has about a thousand reasons to be a hundred times as worked up and it’s a special circle of hell pretending that isn’t the case. While it _does_ feel like their encounter the night before—and the second round at five AM after Dean got back from the bathroom—went a hell of a long way towards soothing both of their fraying edges, to reassure Dean that Cas is as all kinds of into him as he is back, this is still a big day. A _huge_ day that represents a huge step in their still-developing relationship. Where Dean is going to find out if Castiel regrets placing the enormous amount of unearned trust he dumped in his lap, whether Dean was able to deliver on his promises, to live up to Cas’ expectations and everything that he deserves.

“Huge” might be understating things, just a little bit. 

Despite all of that, Dean’s not the kind of douchebag that’s interested in making this huge step in his boyfriend’s post-trauma recovery about _him._ So he does his best to keep all of his feelings and worries about everything swirling through his mind to himself and to keep the focus on Cas. There are no other appointments scheduled in the Bunker today, which Dean made sure of himself, chasing off Sam when he’d tried to book a four-hour session for his flavor of the week. Not Ruby, thank god, but some chick named Amelia that Dean doesn’t like at all and is secretly hoping won’t stick around long. 

Regardless, after years of living out of each other’s pockets, Sam’s at least smart enough to pick up on when Dean’s in need of some space. It’s why he wasn’t home last night, why Dean doubts he’ll be back today. And hey, if Amelia keeps him busy and out of their hair for the weekend, Dean supposes he can like her enough to be grateful for that. 

Still, without Sam to worry about disturbing, he and Cas end up getting an unplanned late start to things. They spend the better part of the morning lounging in bed, kissing and groping in between sips of coffee and bites of toast. Not the most inspiring fuel, but it was the fastest thing Dean could think to make, since at the time his sole focus was on getting back into said bed, warmed and welcoming with Cas’ body heat. 

Point being, by the time they drag themselves out from their self-made cocoon, clean up and dress in fresh clothing, it’s nearing one in the afternoon and they’re both starving again. It takes a round of sandwiches, a beer each, and another interlude of Cas pulling Dean down onto one of the sofas in the War Room—to kiss with surprising enthusiasm, considering his already-chapped lips from their previous activities—before they’re both ready to switch gears. 

When they do, though, the change is drastic. The mood shifts as soon as Castiel straddles Dean’s chair, and Dean immediately misses the light, playful tension present between them all night and into this morning. If he were the praying kind, he’d definitely be sending one up that all of this—from Castiel’s trust in him, to his own skills, to his projected confidence about what’s best for this tattoo—doesn’t blow up in his face. 

With a deep, grounding breath and a subsequent exhale, Dean lets go of all of that stress and zeros in on the task ahead. As soon as the needle of his tattoo machine touches skin, he’s gone—in a different universe, zen in a way that nothing else in his life allows him to be. Tattooing is an art, sure, but it’s also a skill. One that Dean has practiced and honed for years, ever since he was old enough to sit on the small stool next to his dad and watch him work. It’s the culmination of all those years of preparation, development, and discipline that has brought him here. That allows him to focus, to pull off art-related miracles the way that he does. 

Dean goes to work. 

It all coalesces in front of him: the curve of the dark lines against Castiel’s paler skin, the concentration it takes to infuse the particular magic he needs from his pen into the ink, the way the design comes to life both on the canvas and in Dean’s mind. Both are equally necessary and important to crafting the final product, and Dean lets himself be immersed in it all. 

Time flies and he hardly notices. From his slumped-forward position, Castiel is quiet, solemn, letting Dean do what he needs to and not distracting him with small talk or flirting. Dean doesn’t know if that’s primarily for his benefit or if Castiel’s just slipped into that sort of melancholy mood, either way, he respects it and leaves him to his own thoughts.

It takes four hours and thirty-three minutes to complete the remainder of Castiel’s tattoo and by the end, Dean’s hand _hurts._ Much longer, and he’d have to stop for the day. Even still, his eye is critical as it sweeps over the design, checking for flaws both magical and physical. Nothing jumps out at him, but he won’t know for sure until Castiel spreads his wings in the mirror. With any other client, a small magical error wouldn’t be a big deal, it happens frequently and would simply be touched up—no harm, no foul. 

With Cas, though, Dean doesn’t want _anything_ tainting his moment with his new ink, his new vision of himself and the pictures he carries on his body. Cas deserves better than that, after all he’s been through.

So Dean does his best to close every loophole he can find, to infuse and secure the most flawless enchantments he’s ever done, probably in the history of his career. If push came to shove, he’d have to grudgingly admit that this work is superior to even the designs he’s inked on Sam, and that’s saying something. Finally, Dean’s eyes start to water and burn from concentrating so hard, and even his own exacting gaze has to concede that it’s time. There’s always a point with his creations where he _could_ keep picking and tweaking, could do it endlessly really, but on the downslide (and he’s definitely on the downslide now), those adjustments inevitably start to make things worse instead of better. 

“Cas,” he says gently, laying a hand over the back of Castiel’s neck where there’s no fresh ink to make the touch painful, “Sweetheart, I think we’re done here.” Dean can feel Castiel shudder a little beneath his hand, and while he wonders if it’s from his touch or the anxiety of facing what he’s about to see, he doesn’t ask. Instead, he offers Castiel a hand up and has to swallow down panic himself when he sees the nervous expression on his face, the way Castiel’s eyes stare back at him pleadingly. 

Forcing himself to slap on a bright smile and to not dwell on his own bullshit feelings, Dean puts a hand on the small of Castiel’s back and leads him towards the mirror set-up. “Wait,” Castiel says suddenly, stopping short with his hand up. “Can you just…” He trails off, grabbing Dean’s free hand and maneuvering it up so that it’s covering his eyes. “There,” he says, sounding relieved. “I think it’s easier for me this way. I’m not so sure I can force myself to walk in front of those mirrors on my own, not looking straight at it.” 

“Hey, have a little faith in me,” Dean replies lightly, mostly joking, but Castiel stops again and pulls Dean’s hand that he put there down off of his face. Blinking in the light, he reaches up to slide a palm across Dean’s cheek and yank him in to kiss, which is unexpected but not unwelcome. 

“It is _not_ you that I don’t have faith in,” Castiel says fiercely, holding eye contact when they separate until Dean nods his understanding. Castiel nods too, an affirmation, and then replaces Dean’s hand over his eyes before asking to be led on. 

In front of the mirror, Dean hesitates. After all, this _is_ a lot for him, too, considering what’s at stake. He takes a brief moment to suck in a ragged breath and then lets it out before removing his hands and stepping to the side. Once free, Castiel’s eyes find him immediately, and he nods in what he hopes is an encouraging manner. At the very least, Castiel smiles back.

But before anything else can happen, before Castiel can even really find the design on his back with his eyes in the mirror, the Bunker’s main door creaks open. The sound echoes off of the walls framing the cavernous War Room and reverberates throughout the library, drawing both of their attention immediately. 

Distantly, Sam’s voice can be heard behind the grating of the door, like he’s speaking to someone just outside the entrance, someone who is trying to come in. Dean frowns. As poor as Sam’s timing is, he’s not the issue here. That interruption would have been minor, it’s not like Sam wouldn’t have given him and Cas space once he realized what was going on. No, Dean knows his brother well and can recognize most emotions in his voice without trying, and Sam is _angry._ Concerned, Dean strains his ear but all he can catch are scattered words and his brother’s frustrated, heated tone. On instinct, he glances over at Castiel and finds him looking back, frozen, with worry on his face.

“Go,” Castiel says, without flinching. “I’m just going to find a shirt and I’ll be right behind you.” 

Dean’s not particularly proud of it (and he’ll apologize later), but he barely hears the end of Castiel’s sentence since he’s already most of the way out of the room. In his defense, Sam’s been his number one since the day he was born and adult or not, old habits die hard. Bolting across the atrium, Dean scales the stairs up to the exterior doors two at a time, since Sam’s still at the top. He must be standing on the other side of the doorway, just out of view. Dean makes it just over halfway there before he sees Sam stumble backward through the open door, stopped hard by the iron balustrade ramming into his side. The impact shows on Sam’s face, but at least he wasn’t pushed hard enough to lose his balance and tumble headfirst over the railing.

“Sam!” Dean calls out fearfully, immediately regretting showing his emotional cards to whoever’s trying to invade their home, but his ingrained need to protect his brother isn’t something he can just override, not like this. It all happens so quickly and Dean’s heart is beating a mile a minute, but while Sam winces as he uses the rail to straighten back up, he waves Dean off, signaling that he’s fine. “What the fu—” 

For better or worse, Dean doesn’t get a chance to finish off his curse before the _last_ person he _ever_ expected to see walk through the doors of the Bunker does exactly that. Stopping dead in the middle of the stairs, at first, all Dean can do is blink like an idiot. Somewhere in his head, he thinks he _must_ still be asleep in bed with Cas, because this? This is a nightmare. Between the timing and the dramatic entrance, what in the actual fuck? This is _too_ coincidental. This has to be magic, _dark_ magic, because if it’s not, Dean’s not sure he wants to live in a world where things like _this_ just happen.

All that considered, Dean thinks he can probably be forgiven for being rendered temporarily speechless as he stares up into the smug, condescending face of the one, the only, Balthazar Roche.

“Hello, boys,” Balthazar says smoothly in his stupid accent, striding forward casually as if he didn’t just shove a Winchester in his own fucking home, nearly sending him crashing over the edge of the balcony to his death (or worse). 

“ _Hey_ ,” Dean protests weakly, still gathering his wits while exchanging glances of disbelief and confusion with Sam. Meanwhile, Balthazar saunters towards him down the stairs, unbothered. “Hey,” Dean repeats more firmly, but the cocky asshole doesn’t so much as raise an eyebrow, smirking down at him now from only one stair above. Irritation rises in Dean and he resists the urge to cold-cock the dude and send him over the rail like he nearly did to Sam. What the hell is with him and smarmy British douchebags, anyway? Is he some kind of wanker magnet, or what? “I said, _hey_!” 

“You did, twice. Good for you,” Balthazar replies distractedly, patting Dean on the shoulder as he continues down the stairs, wholly undaunted by Dean’s posturing. Left behind on the stairs, Dean fumes. It wasn’t on his agenda to get into a fistfight tonight, but like hell if he’s gonna let this fucking guy _anywhere_ near—

“Cas, you’re here. It’s good to see you.” Balthazar’s in the middle of the War Room now while Dean’s still scrambling after him, just barely reaching the bottom of the stairs as he speaks and feeling like he’s hopelessly one step behind at every turn tonight. One look at the doorway to the library tells him that he’s too late, anyway, because a shirtless ( _drool later)_ Castiel is filling up the space like he owns it. There’s something different about Cas—his energy, maybe, or his posture? Dean can’t quite put his finger on it—that makes him pause, keeps him from charging into the space between Cas and his ex to do something wildly territorial and stupid. Notably, he still wants to do exactly that, and it’s a fight with himself to stay back, one that Dean nearly loses several times over.

“Balthazar,” Castiel replies, his attractive face scrunched up in confusion and no less so for it, as far as Dean is concerned. “What is all this? What are you doing here?” Even as he talks, Cas’ gaze seeks out and finds Dean’s, and while Balthazar is busy preening and touching himself in the middle of the atrium, Castiel glances pointedly over at the light switches on the wall before looking back at Dean again. 

_The lights? You want them off?_ Dean does his best to think as loudly as possible, and it must land because the side of Castiel’s mouth quirks up _just_ slightly. The action wouldn’t be noticeable to anyone that wasn’t looking, but Dean is. He couldn’t look away if he tried. 

Oblivious to their exchange, Balthazar addresses the room like an invited orator, living up to his pompous reputation without trying. He very obviously enjoys hearing himself speak and seems completely indifferent to what any of the rest of them are doing _or_ the fact that he’s the opposite of welcome here. “I came to bring you home, Cas,” he declares, the air about him suggesting he thinks he’s doing Castiel a favor. “I've been hearing all about you, the things you’ve been doing, the charms you’ve been creating. As far as I'm concerned, you and me, Cas, nothing's changed. We're partners. Of course, I want you back. I want to _help_ you.” 

“I’m doing just fine without your ‘help’,” Castiel replies stoically and with actual air quotes, which makes Dean smirk proudly as he creeps towards the edge of the room. Honestly, he’s got no idea why Castiel wants him to be subtle about the lights, but this is Cas’ battle and Dean is willing to do whatever it is he thinks he needs to get through it.

“Sure, sure,” Balthazar replies, stippling his fingers together and nodding as he paces around a little bit. “Out of curiosity, you do know I could flick your precious boys off of a cliff, just on principle?” Dean pauses in his slow sidle towards the wall and Sam stiffens from his warily held position on the stairs, both ready to throw down if necessary. Even if Balthazar has some sort of weapon, it’s three against one. Surely, he wouldn’t be _that_ stupid, to try something here, like this. Thankfully, Balthazar holds up a hand. “Figuratively speaking, of course,” he adds, a sly grin pulling at his mouth that makes Dean roll his eyes. _Fuckin’ dramatic asshole._ “Ruin them, is what I mean, naturally. I could ruin you all, with just a well-chosen phone call or two.” 

“Your bark has always been bigger than your bite, Balthazar, enough of this,” Castiel fires back without hesitation. “Your threats don’t hold weight any longer. Not with me and not with the loyal customers Sam and Dean have worked hard to recruit and retain over the years.” He folds his arms across his chest and lifts an eyebrow, looking down at Balthazar challengingly. While the gaze isn’t directed his way, a shiver goes down Dean’s spine all the same, seeing Cas so dominant and brave. It’s fuckin’ hot, is what it is.

To his credit, Balthazar’s face only pinches slightly at the edges and his voice is even when he throws his next insults. Despite that, the edge of fury and disdain infused into it is impossible to miss. “You would choose this... this hairless _ape_ over me? I gave you everything, Castiel.” 

Castiel’s eyes narrow and his head tilts to the side. Instead of answering right away, he nods at Dean who raises his hand to flip the wall switches and plunge the Bunker into relative darkness. Before he does, Castiel speaks. “You took so much more than you gave, Balthazar, and that ‘hairless ape’ gave me my life back,” he growls. “He is twice the man you believe yourself to be, in _every_ way. Now, you are going to turn around and leave this place. You’re going to leave me and the Winchesters alone. You’re not ever going to contact any of us again, or I will tell the entire world what kind of man you really are. What you _did_ to me and how low you tried to make me feel.” 

As the lights flicker out, Dean feels a crackle of electricity skitter across his skin. He might think he imagined it from all the adrenaline and tension permeating the air, but the hairs on his arms actually stand on end, so he wonders. Across the room, he sees the silhouette of Castiel’s shoulders raising and lowering as he takes a stabilizing deep breath. 

“I’m not low or broken,” Castiel growls, and there it is again, _static,_ some kind of powerful charge—it’s definitely real, _but how?_ “I never was.” 

Before Dean can say anything or react, a blast of light has him lifting a hand to shield his eyes, quickly lowering it again just as soon as he realizes what’s happening. “Cas,” he murmurs softly, a smile spreading across his face. 

Under the arch of the entryway to the library, Castiel _glows._ His already-dazzling eyes light up an entrancing neon blue, the same color and light as the grace tattoo on his neck and the _insane_ display lighting up the stonework on either side of him. His wings have appeared in the air, casting magnificent shadows on the walls, and suddenly Dean understands perfectly well why Cas wanted the lights off. 

It’s a hell of a show, so much so that it takes a minute for Dean to realize— _he_ didn’t include that lighting effect in his work. It’s not even a charm he knows how to ink.

As the three of them watch enthralled from the Atrium floor, Castiel spreads his busted and broken wings wide. This time, though, he doesn’t shrink, doesn’t close his eyes, doesn’t hide. Castiel stands tall and confident, owning every inch of the damaged skin and feathers he boasts and _damn,_ does he look _badass_ when he does. Even more incredible than the first time Dean saw them, sequestered inside the sanctuary of his room. Unable to help it, Dean holds his breath as the illusion morphs, desperately hoping the enchantment executes the way he intended, the way he meticulously inked it to. 

Slowly and smoothly, Cas’ wings change. The broken parts, like both alulas on top, straighten and stand tall, flexing with their newly-restored strength. The burns and injuries fade and disappear while fluffy feathers regrow from the roots right before their eyes. Each one comes in just like a real bird’s flight feathers—a tubular shape that unfurls from the tip back to the root, and while it’s spectacular to watch, Dean feels a deep sense of satisfaction that _his_ research and talent produced such an incredible sight. The fuller and healthier the wings grow, the further they extend and the more breathtaking they become to look at. 

By the end of the transformation, Castiel (who is still glowing) has two perfect wings, every feather intact and sporting multifaceted, inky blue-black coloring that flashes rainbow in the same way an oil spill might when it’s hit with light. It— _he—_ is truly a magnificent sight, so much so that even Balthazar is struck speechless. 

As the glow in Cas’ eyes fades and his wings start to shimmer and disappear, Dean reaches up to turn the lights back on. Castiel lets the illusion drop but doesn’t do the same with the defiant stare he’s giving his ex.

“How—” Balthazar starts, but Castiel cuts him off, which pleases Dean immensely and has him struggling not to yell, “you tell him, baby!” Which would probably not be appreciated at this particular moment, since Cas seems to be on a roll. 

“Just so you understand,” Castiel begins, stepping down from the steps so that he’s nearly face-to-face with his ex. “While Dean did the majority of this cover-up and transformation, I _chose_ to keep the original you saddled me with. I _chose_ to own it, to wear those scars, so to speak, with pride. I even accentuated it—the blue lighting you and I created for my grace? The electricity you felt in the air just now?” Castiel holds up his left hand and Dean squints from his place across the room, trying to make out what the black squiggle on Castiel’s inner wrist is without being obvious that’s what he’s doing. “That was me. Not just my choice but my own charm, created explicitly for this purpose. I inked it on my skin myself, just now while you were arguing with Dean.”

“That’s impossible,” Balthazar scoffs. “There was no time for—”

“You always underestimate me,” Castiel asserts, cutting him off again as he steps closer, right into Balthazar’s space. “You don’t _know_ me and you certainly don’t know what I’m capable of.” He holds up his hand again and Dean watches with interest, clocking the exact moment Balthazar realizes that Castiel is telling the truth, that the tattoo on his wrist is as fresh as the one on his back. “And you didn’t break me. Not even close.” 

As Castiel’s gaze snaps away from Balthazar and focuses on Dean, the change in both his expression and demeanor is both sudden and dramatic. It looks as though he physically rolls the whole situation right off of his shoulders, a smile spreading across his face as he strides across the room and loops his arm through Dean’s. 

“I believe we had an appointment,” is all he says as he leads Dean out of the War Room and down the hall. 

As they walk away, they can hear Sam laughing from the War Room. “Dude,” Sam says, “Pretty sure that was the most outstanding personification of a “fuck you” in all of history. No, but seriously, get out or I’m gonna shoot you.”

“What is that thing, anyway?” Dean asks, gesturing towards Castiel’s wrist as they move arm-in-arm down the hall and Castiel presses himself into Dean’s side.

“Hmm? Oh, the tattoo. It’s the Enochian letter for “C”, the language of the angels. Another nod to my name. It’s just a vehicle for the charm.” He says it so nonchalantly, so humbly that Dean feels the need to clarify what a _big_ fuckin’ deal this is, what an unparalleled success Cas is going to be in the tattoo world, sooner rather than later. 

“...A charm that you thought of, created, and inked on the fly, _on yourself,_ when your ex showed up unexpectedly and you wanted to tell him off. You know, Cas, _most_ people just go to the gym, lose ten pounds and bang the douchebag’s best friend.”

Castiel stops walking and stares up at him, wide-eyed. “I was inspired,” he says, perfectly straight-faced, which makes Dean burst out laughing. 

“Christ,” he says, shaking his head and pulling Cas back in close as they resume the walk to his room where presumably, someone’s world is getting rocked, because Dean’s never been _this_ turned on in his whole damn life. “You are something else, sweetheart. Don’t ever change, because I can’t fuckin’ wait to see what you do next.” 

“The feeling is mutual, Dean,” Castiel replies softly as they step inside his room. He stands on his toes to steal a kiss as Dean shuts the door behind them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> psst... my end notes for this one are at the end of the epilogue so click next ;)
> 
> HOW AMAZING IS THAT ART?!?!?!? Reminder to go check out Gio on [insta](https://www.instagram.com/gioguiarts/), [twitter](https://twitter.com/Gio_Gui), [tumblr](https://sketching-fox.tumblr.com/), and give her all the love!!!


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All good things must come to an end.

_Two Years Later_

The release of Michael Shield’s next highly-anticipated installment for his fantasy series coincides somewhat accidentally with the fourteenth annual “Enchanted Ink” Tattoo Convention. This is fortunate, since it gives the man behind the pseudonym his first opportunity to promote both of his passions at once, at least since “coming out” officially to the public. To see Dean engaging with both sets of his fans today, you’d never know that he once harbored fear and anxiety about owning his writing and sharing it proudly with his real name attached.

And while the interests of his two very different groups of fans don’t always overlap, they’re drawn equally to the convention and to the booth at the back of the expo center where Dean, Sam, and Castiel are set up. That’s thanks in no small part to the spectacular display _Soul Survivor_ has come up with to promote not only _both_ of Dean’s ventures _and_ Sam’s enviable tattoo work, but also Castiel’s innovative charms and enchantments.

Over the past two years, the three of them have managed to transform the Winchesters’ original tattoo business into something even more novel and exciting, something special and unique in the tattoo industry as a whole. Castiel is their secret weapon; a specialist that can be booked on his own or as an “à la carte” option to augment either Dean or Sam’s art with a magical component that only he can ink. Sounds, lighting, all sorts of special effects—there’s nothing like Castiel out there and as such, the three of the dominate the enchanted ink marketplace without breaking a sweat. Last any of them heard (and not unrelated to that fact), Balthazar’s shop was close to going out of business. 

Not that he’s ever been named by them specifically, but after Dean’s latest book, it became apparent that the pieces weren’t all that difficult to put together, if one had a mind to do so.

After all, when Dean outed himself as “Michael Shield” and immediately, an angel named “Misha” showed up in the story looking exactly like Castiel down to the tattoos he wears on his skin, that was suggestive enough. When Misha came with a tragic backstory sporting its own accompanying British-accented villain, suspicions were raised. But when Jensen and Misha got together in the books, fans simply took it as confirmation of all of the above, and if Dean and Castiel are being honest, they’re not at all sorry about that.

Life goes on, and these days, Castiel’s nearly forgotten about Balthazar altogether. It’s a nice feeling, to not be plagued by his past.

In that same vein, today, Castiel stands perched on a human-model display podium inside the expo center where the tattoo convention is being held. It’s one of the ones he could barely stand to look at just two years prior, imagining and cringing at even the idea of putting his disastrous ink on display in such a way. So, so much has changed, and with Dean providing moral support from the booth behind him, Castiel stands strong and proud, holding a partial illusion where his wings are out but the dramatic lighting is forgone. The result is an emphasis on the wings themselves, which cycle ethereally between the old to the new while the crowds gather below, stopping to admire him (and Dean’s work) during their comings and goings. 

Down at Castiel’s feet is a plaque providing backstory and detail on the “Misha” character in Dean’s book, and how the angel’s wings were damaged pulling Jensen out of Hell. It goes on to describe how Jensen helped Misha learn to accept his wings, resulting in their spontaneous, magical healing _only_ once he was able to do just that. This, of course, is the tie-in display for their booth, the one that helps justify Dean doing PR for his book as well as the shop at a tattoo convention. 

Behind Castiel and in front of Dean, a dwindling stack of those very books sits on _Soul Survivor’s_ table, for sale and autographed by both Dean and Castiel. They didn’t bring enough—at the rate they’re selling, every book will be gone long before the end of the day. As for Castiel, he’s still got another hour of playing model and then he has a simple charm demo to do on Zaf while Sam takes a break to forage for food. 

With any luck, he and Dean will wrap up their demos around the same time and be able to take off for the night together. They have plans to meet Charlie and her girlfriend, Benny and his wife back at the Bunker later, and if Sam and Eileen wind up there too, the party could go on until the early hours of the morning. Abruptly, Castiel feels grateful to be long past the days where the Bunker wasn’t his _home,_ where he had to worry about overstaying his welcome and not drinking so much that he couldn’t drive home at the end of the night if need be. 

Tonight, thankfully, he won’t have to worry about any of that. Like every night, Castiel will fall into bed in Room 11, a room that’s as much his now as it is Dean’s. Room 15, while it holds many fond memories for both of them, has long-since been returned to guest room status. As for Room 11, aside from Castiel’s clothes in the closet, some art on the walls, and the way Castiel made the temporary addition of all the pillows and blankets to the bed permanent, not much has changed. 

It’s really _good_ to finally feel like he belongs, and Castiel is happy there. 

Perhaps that’s the greatest surprise of all, even two years in to this thing with the Winchesters. Castiel _is_ happy, he’s thriving. He’s happy in his career, happy with Dean, happy standing half-naked on this stupid platform and being gawked at by strangers. He glances over his shoulder and finds Dean’s eyes immediately, the man already staring back with a dopey grin on his face and the Impala revving on his right bicep. Dean’s shirt is off in solidarity and earning him plenty of his own ogling, no elevated platform needed. Unable to resist, Castiel smiles back and the one on Dean’s face widens. 

Unsurprisingly, Castiel feels a pulse just over his heart, a _thump-thump_ just _barely_ out of sync with the beat playing in his own chest. He looks down and sees the EKG tracing inked over his left pec moving the way it would on a screen, a literal representation of Dean’s life on his skin, Dean’s heart walking around outside of his body. Thanks to the charm Castiel created just for them, the ink is reacting to Dean, to the way Dean _feels_ when he looks at Castiel, giving some kind of new meaning to the tropey, sappy, romantic cliche of one’s heart beating only for another. 

It makes Castiel feel even more warm and full to know that right now, his own heartbeat inked onto the brand on Dean’s left shoulder is doing the very same thing. Originally, Dean meant to get the EKG over his heart, just like Cas’, but he changed his mind after writing Misha pulling Jensen out of Hell, deciding to replicate the brand Misha’s hand sears into Jensen’s left shoulder with Castiel’s own handprint and his own skin. The EKG charm is inked onto the palm of that tattoo, and Castiel added a little something extra that creates a _particular_ sensation when he covers the charmed handprint with his own flesh. 

As if Dean can read his thoughts (and perhaps he can, Castiel is thinking _very_ loudly and in his direction), he shivers and his fingers come up to touch the reddened mark on his shoulder.

 _Later,_ is what Castiel gets when Dean winks back at him.

Enchanted ink, indeed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for not getting to all the wonderful comments y'all have left. Each and every one is extremely appreciated, I read them all I just don't always have the spoons to reply right away. I promise I will get to them, but I figured y'all would rather have the ending than some boring replies. Thank you ALL for reading along on another WIP, I so, so, SO appreciate the feedback and encouragement. It really helps. I hope you enjoyed and I will see you on the next one, hopefully. 
> 
> Also I have a Pinefest (meddling Sam & Charlie plus a heap of Disney tropes) and a SPN Media Big Bang (i am legend AU w/romance + happy ending) both coming in April and a fix-it fic for the Endverse also posting very soon, so stick around if any of those sound like something you'd like to read. <3
> 
> thank you again for your support, please rec this if you liked it and know anyone who might enjoy it! 
> 
> Keep your heads up and stay safe out there. You are important, and you are loved. <3 Feel free to hit me up on [Tumblr](https://castielslostwings.tumblr.com/)  
> or[Twitter](https://twitter.com/caslostwings) if you're lonely or having a tough time.


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